On a riverbank in Kyoto, a heron edges closer to a harmonica player and misreads the terms of enchantment.

In Kyoto, there’s a man playing harmonica on a bank of the Kamo River and a heron standing stock still, his head perfectly aligned with his long neck, ready to hunt. Crows are hopping across the brilliant Spring grass near the musician’s feet, and ducks are waddling towards the him. The musician and the birds are in full sun, while a human audience sits quietly on a park bench a few metres away, in the shade of a tree.

The musician wears worn out blue jeans and a straw hat that’s decorated with feathers and ribbons. His bicycle is behind him on the path, leaning on its kickstand.
He stops playing for a moment and the heron looks up and takes a step towards him. The musician waves at the birds, bends his legs, and begins to play again, as he dances across the grass.

The heron takes another step towards the musician, but is shooed away as the musician extends his arms. The heron turns slowly towards the river, lowering his head and shoulders and their shawl of steel grey, as if bowing in apology.

The musician retreats closer to his bicycle. The heron tucks in his wings and stands tall and lean, the long white feathers of his breast catching in the wind. He turns his pointed head slowly towards the tree where people are shaded from the sun. Are they enjoying this too?

The music stops and the heron turns back to see that the musician is putting away his harmonica, and taking his bicycle off its stand.

“Don’t go!” Says the heron, taking jerking strides towards him on his spindly legs.

The musician gets on his bike and turns back to wave goodbye to all the birds. 

“But l love you…”, Says the heron.

“Oh, but l’m not a heron,” says the musician, smiling. 

“You’ve got long legs…” Says the heron.

“Human ones.” He laughs. “Perhaps you love my music, or maybe the feathers in my hat?” He stands on the pedals and pushes away on the bicycle.

“Oh.” Says the heron, dropping his head. 

He faces the river so his head is once again aligned, and indecipherable from his neck. He sees the silver bellies of huge fish glinting in the shallows of the river, but isn’t hungry. He stays still.

After a few minutes he steps up the bank and stands on the patch of grass where the musician had stood. The crows have hopped or flown away and the ducks have waddled off along the bank, busy with their duck business.

The heron doesn’t seem to notice a tourist taking his photo just a few feet away, or two women sheltering under their parasols, who almost touch his feathers as they pass. He looks ahead, then bows gracefully, spreading his heavy wings. With a leap, he is flying low across the river to the opposite bank where he descends into tall reeds and is hidden. He’s there now, just below the park bench where I’ve been sitting all this time, observing a heron’s heart break. 

By Ruth Bone

Litro Magazine