First Bird

THE FIRST BIRD I saw on the first day last year was a great blue heron or, as my friends call them, great blue motherfucking herons (GBMFH for short). Since I first heard my friend Devon refer to a heron that way, I haven’t been able to see them as anything else. There’s a certain delight to spotting one that doesn’t diminish no matter how many times I come across them.

Some mornings I walk to the Willamette River a few minutes from my apartment and see one, then two, then three. Sometimes they wade in the water. Other times they perch nearby. Occasionally they soar gloriously over my head with their wings outstretched, and for a moment I wonder if they’re going to fly right into me.

My friends and I have been talking a lot about the importance of rituals over the last year. Not just the holidays and their traditions but also of taking a moment to note the shortest day of the year, the day the daphne with their citrus sweet blossoms bloom in winter, the day a flock of cedar waxwings decorates the holly tree to feast on red berries.

In birding circles, they say the first bird you see in a new year sets the tone for what follows. Anything can be meaningful if you see it as a sign.