For the last several months, HK and I have been visiting our friends, the great blue herons, almost every weekend. Each year, beginning in March or April, dozens of the beautiful birds come to an island on the Lake Lanier near our house. The males show up first and choose what they hope will be considered prime real estate by the soon-to-arrive females. Once the lady birds have decided on a mate, she begins decorating the tree-top nest. Soon, they’re expecting, and within a month or so babies arrive.
Our routine is to visit the island that they inhabit around dusk, when they’re most active in their nests. “Klack Klack Klack…” they are so chatty. We love watching the chicks grow bigger, poking their ever-developing heads further above the treetops.
This past weekend, we paid our visit Friday evening. The air was balmy, sky was clear and the the seranade from the island was magical. Saturday was a repeat performance. Sunday we stopped by for an encore. We took the boat around the entire island, but there was no sign of our friends. No “Klack…”, no heads popping up or wings spread wide. The island was desterted. They had flown on, headed to parts unknown, to us, anyway. It seemed appropriate, though. H.K and I are heading to northern climes, as well. The Great Blue Herons of Lake Lanier just beat us to it. So long, friends, safe trip.