I heard the heron before I saw it. Two loud squawks broke the silence of the slough, announcing its approach before its shape ever cleared the treeline.

I was sitting low in my kayak when it came into view, rising up the dark water of a slough off the Tchefuncte River, just before dawn. The cypress-tupelo forest behind it held onto the night a little longer, dark and detailed enough to give the bird somewhere to stand out against. I panned with it as it came, and for a moment it seemed to hang there, suspended, as if floating on a string. It passed by effortlessly, unbothered by my presence, wings barely working against the still morning air.