At sunrise, the Qolayli marsh was still — a mirror of golden light stretching between reeds and sea breeze. Chadi Saad adjusted his cap, slung his camera over his shoulder, and stepped gently into the familiar rhythm of birdwatching. This southern Lebanese coastal patch, often overlooked, had become his sanctuary.
That morning, silence gave way to a sudden rustle. From a tangle of reeds, a white flash lifted into the air — slender, graceful, pristine.
“A little egret,” Chadi whispered, awed as always.
Its delicate black legs skimmed the water, yellow feet barely disturbing the surface. With a serpentine neck and sharp black bill, it stood still — then struck! A tiny fish disappeared in an instant.
Chadi steadied his lens. He’d seen little egrets before, but this one felt different. It danced across the shallows with a certain confidence, lifting its wings just slightly, revealing a shimmer of light through its feathers. The wind brushed the grasses, and for a moment, everything stilled.
He clicked, once, twice — not just for the photo, but to remember the feeling. The feeling of witnessing life in its most poetic form.
Children passed nearby, chasing crabs along the shore. The egret lifted off and arced over them, its wings wide like pages in a story. One child pointed and laughed. Chadi turned and smiled — perhaps this simple encounter could spark in them what sparked in him years ago.
That morning, the little egret reminded Chadi why he watched birds: not just for records or beauty, but for the chance to see wildness thrive — even in a quiet, fragile corner like Qolayli.
And he knew: as long as the little egret returned, so would he.
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