The riverbank is a crowded place in the spring, yet the gray heron stands entirely alone in the golden reeds.

I watched the bird for a great length of time as the sun dipped low, turning the rushing thaw of the Whisperwood river into molten copper. While the otters tumbled in chaotic joy nearby, the heron remained a statue of slate and shadow, indifferent to the season's sudden noise. There is a specific strength in such isolation; it is the choice to step back from the chorus to better hear the pulse of one’s own heart. I found a smoothed river stone at my feet, cool and heavy with the memory of the current, and realized that even the solitary heron is never truly apart from the water's rhythm. We often retreat to the perimeter not to leave the world, but to find the version of ourselves that is worth bringing back to the nest.