The Heron Rookery

There’s a rookery on Bainbridge island that is hardly a secret, but I’m not going to say where it is. I like to imagine there are still hidden places where birds can nest without our interference.    

It’s amazing how many people have never heard of a rookery, or don’t know the meaning of the word. I didn’t know before I moved here, and my sister thought I was talking about a kitchen appliance. But once I stood beneath one, it was like giving myself up to a breathtaking privilege—such an incredible feeling.

So when I heard the heron rookery is for sale, I felt nothing but fear for the herons. My god, can’t we leave anything alone? I thought about all the promises that could, and likely would, be made between the owners and buyers and agents to allay the conservationists, only to be broken later.

I wondered. I asked around. I waited.    

I tried not to think of what could happen. But I was worried. Because I know, of course. I know, construction could win out.

I also know that I am such a hypocrite.

Because I live in a condo development—a controversial one—that rose to command four acres directly north of the ferry terminal, where people used to walk so that the horse chestnut trees could nurture them though long wet winters and lend shade in summer. I don’t remember how the subject of my address came up in T&C one day, but a woman with gorgeous grey hair waved a hand at me and turned away leaving me dejected among the bulk food bins. Even now, when I tell certain people where I live, I can see it in their eyes: that my home is the first housing project that changed the character of the island for good. Never mind the new round-abouts that made my friend Grace say, “We all need something to roll our eyes at.”      

I took another walk to the rookery. I stood underneath taking in the sound of wingbeats and scraping toes, the elaborate nests built to shelter against windstorms and rain and eagles and ospreys and rodent predators. I watched two herons aim harsh squawks at each other. This went on for a while.

When I finally find the nerve, I call the real estate agent who listed the rookery property. She hasn’t called back, but even before I know what she’ll say, I know what she’ll say: It’s private land with a view of the harbor. It will eventually sell. If not this year, then next.

I know this world will always be plundered apart and rejoined together, but I am always stunned by how fast the plunder and how slow the rejoin. I can’t bear to think what the herons will do if their trees are felled to make room for another luxury home. If I do let myself think about it, I see stunned versions of herons frantically searching for a new stand of trees.

All I can think to say is that maybe there is something good about this terrible feeling—that it’s never bad to remember what really matters.  

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I am so happy to say that since writing this piece, I have received the most wonderful news—the Bainbridge Island Land Trust received enough donations to save the heron rookery!

Mary Lou Sanelli

Mary Lou Sanelli’s latest title is In So Many Words. She works as a writer, speaker, and master dance teacher. For more information visit www.marylousanelli.com.