On my morning walks along the river there is almost always one grey heron (Ardea cinerea) standing in the shallows below the bridge. It is the most patient hunter I know: it can stay completely still for twenty minutes, then strike so fast that you only see the fish afterwards.
A large, long-legged bird, grey above and whitish below, with a white head, a black stripe running from the eye into a thin crest, and a heavy yellow dagger of a bill. In flight the neck is pulled back into an S-curve and the wingbeats are slow and deep — a good way to tell it from storks and cranes at a distance.
Herons hunt alone and defend their stretch of water, but nest together in colonies high in tall trees. When disturbed, a heron lifts off with a hoarse, irritated "fraank" and flies only a short way downstream before settling again. In winter they also hunt voles in open fields, which surprises people who think of them strictly as fish-eaters.
They are common, but watching one hunt never gets old — a lesson in how much can be done by simply waiting.