Looking across our rain-drizzled pond this morning, I was happy to see the great blue heron that my wife calls Harry. He was already coming here for breakfast when we moved to this apartment five years ago. The brown trout must suit him well, because he gets bigger and more handsome every year.

Harry’s a recluse. His keen vision spots me when I enter the living room, even though his favorite fishing spot is a good seventy yards away. He raises his dazzling white head with its jet-black mask and stalks up the bank to the forest screen of a nearby creek.

Welcome, friend. We hoped you’d come back.