Herons of New Stork
I took these pictures of birds and wrote character profiles for them.
Jessica
Like other Great Blue Herons in her neighborhood, Jessica is nervous for the future. “I know I don’t have to tell you this,” she says, her eyes briefly flitting to a passing trout, “but in today’s economy, I’m working double shifts just to put fish on the table.”
Jessica has two kids, both just 50 days old and already looking to leave the nest. “I do everything I can to manage my work-life and home-life, but it’s hard. After all, I’m only Heron.”
That may be true. But on this chilly morning in the park, her weight perched precariously on a thin branch overhanging the river, she’s the perfect picture of balance.
Linda
The first thing I notice, stepping on to Linda’s forest estate, is the size. “It’s too much, isn’t it?” she says, snatching a large insect as it flutters by. “I know. It was Dad’s idea. He always wants more than he needs.” She looks around. “It’s a lot.”
From the dining room, we can see over the pines, into the sunlit valley below. Linda will inherit her family’s bug restaurant next fall, once her father retires, but that also feels like too much. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice. But I’m still so young,” she says. “How can I know what I want, you know? For me.”
She lazily snaps at another passing insect, its body cracking in her beak, and relaxes onto her new lichen-encrusted branch. For now, it seems we can put questions of want aside.
Adriana
Since she was a fledgling, Adriana has dreamt of objects colliding. Sometimes they’re harmless, small things like fallen leaves or cotton swabs. “And sometimes,” she says, “they’re stars, planets, galaxies.” She laughs, “Though I guess even small things might be bigger than me.”
Her place is cozy, decorated with trinkets and ornate cross-stitching. “I guess what scares me most is getting lost in the debris,” she says, offering me a tiny cup of nectar. “The universe is still expanding. Did you know that? So, in a very real way, I’m getting smaller every second.”
Below us, a crowd gathers. A few onlookers point up at her, their eyes glued to binoculars, their hands clutching field guides. To them, she is larger than life.
Brian
“Well, it’s stereotyping, plain and simple,” Brian says, a damp washcloth clutched in his talons. “A lot of people think, they think, ‘Hey, a Barred Owl, I wonder if he owns a bar.’ And, okay, yeah. I do, but it wasn’t my first choice, you know? I had bigger dreams.”
He polishes the countertop to a dull shine, his apron strap tucked beneath his neck feathers. “I mean, I have a PhD in anthropology. Did you know that? I’m an actual doctor.” Still, it’s clear he loves this place. After all, the bar’s been closed an hour, and he’s still here, polishing.
“I guess some people could say I’ve given up,” he says, examining his reflection in the bar top. “But it’s the hand I was dealt. And who could’ve done better? You tell me. Who? Who?”
Harold
“If I had to put a talon on it, I’d say I’m just sick of people calling me a chicken,” Harold says, furtively pecking at his feet. “The world’s a scary place. I’m not a coward just because I’ve noticed.” He struts and flaps his stubby wings, flying into the marsh’s underbrush.
“I mean, have you seen what’s out there?” He peeks at me from behind his curtain of autumn rushes. “Well…I haven’t,” Harold says. “I don’t like the noises.” After some time, he emerges, bobbing his head and scurrying in circles along the ground. “Prairie chicken? Can you believe it?”
Despite what he says, it’s clear Harold is no coward. After all, we’re all afraid from time to time. As to whether he’s a chicken? Well, the jury’s still out.
Patrick
Patrick is uncomfortable with talk of fame. “It was one movie, almost ten years ago,” he says, pecking at an orange juice carton. “It was a fluke. A movie like mine would never fly today. Kids want action. They want explosions.”
It’s early, the sun’s light only an empty threat. “I mean, what did it even make? Ten million? Twenty?” Patrick smiles at this. He knows the number. We sit for awhile, listening to the tide from his beachside loft. Eventually, he sighs, “Thank God for the residuals.”
As dawn breaks, it’s like the darkness was never there at all. The moon is gone. In the distance, twinkling over the water, the sky’s last star tries not to fade.