It was just past noon when I returned to the salt marshes of Qlaileh. The sun hung heavy, casting sharp shadows on the tamarisk bushes and shimmering pools. Most birds were resting, but I had a hunch — one I had learned to trust.
Then I saw it.
Standing alone, tall and motionless, like a monument of feathers and stillness — the gray heron. Regal in posture, it towered over the reeds, cloaked in slate-gray, with a white crown streaked in black. Its yellow eyes scanned the water with the patience only nature could teach.
I crouched behind a rock, breath held.
The heron moved — one slow step. Another. Then, like a striking blade, its long beak dove and emerged with a wriggling catch. A silver mullet, plucked from the silence. The heron tossed it, swallowed, and resumed its frozen stance.
In those few minutes, Qolayli changed. It wasn’t just a quiet stretch of Lebanon’s coast. It was a kingdom. And the heron — silent, elegant, dignified — was its sovereign.
I didn’t take a photo. Not this time.
Sometimes, I remind myself that being a birdwatcher isn’t always about the shot. It’s about presence. Witnessing the poetry of survival.
That gray heron, with its calm strength and ancient wisdom, taught me more in ten minutes than a hundred bird books.
And as I left the marsh that day, I looked back once more. The heron was still there. Watching. Waiting. Holding the balance between sky and water.
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