Every night I look out of my window. There she is, stood lonely atop the lichen-stippled rock, surrounded by the gentle swash of the Juan de Fuca waves.

‘Good night, Henrietta,’ I’ll bid on occasions, whilst on others I will merely nod.

It is, of course, likely that she – with her curved neck and fine bill – knows little of my observing eyes, but it feels right to acknowledge others; heron or human, featherless or otherwise.