If we are fortunate enough to spot a large shape through the trees, moving silently across the swamp, we grab the binoculars and head for the viewing area. It’s just a spot where a few trees have fallen, giving us a somewhat less-obstructed view of the heronry in the swamp behind the house.

The adult great blue heron glides in on wide wings, then tilts and curves around behind the nest before extending its legs and folding in its wings as it lands on the cluster of long, dead branches.

Often one or more of the nestlings has been watching and when they spy the coming meal, a wild racket breaks out. Eager necks stretch up and long bills open wide. “Me! Me! Me!” each one cries.

The parent cocks its head for a moment, looking for the right bird, then pokes its own bill deep into one nestling’s gaping bill. The parent sits there for a moment, silent amidst the eager squawking of the young, then lifts its wings and swoops low off the tree, gathering speed, and heading out of the swamp and back to the nearby lake to look for more frogs or fish.

The young don’t settle down immediately, though. Now that they’re up, they begin to fight for space. In early July, they are as big as the adults. Only their fuzzy feathers allow us to tell them apart from the parents. In a nest of two, the noise and jostling isn’t too bad. There’s room for them as they stretch, test their wings, and move around. In other nests though, the situation is different.

I’m always astonished that three or four heron young can fit into one nest so well that from the ground, it’s impossible to tell how many birds are there. One head will poke up, followed by a long neck and then the body. That movement disturbs a second bird and soon another head comes up. And then a third and sometimes, a fourth.

They struggle for space and I fear that one will be pushed out. They’ll stand on the edge of the nest, stretching those wide wings and long necks, and they argue, squabble, and even fight. One beak pokes into another and pushes the second head and neck down. “This is my space keep out of it!” On some summer nights, the fighting and noise continues long after dark and we sit near the open windows to listen in.

Some summers we saw two nests in the swamp, others one, and one long, sadly quiet summer, there were no active nests at all. An adult had returned in March, but its mate never showed up and their old nest fell apart.

This spring, the usual two pairs returned and set about refurbishing their homes after the winter winds had stripped away some of the branches. Then we began noticing more activity. An adult returned repeatedly to a tree off the edge of the swamp. How much do they need for this nest, we wondered. A closer inspection with the binoculars revealed the exciting answer: our resident two pairs had been joined by a third! I dubbed them the Newbies and noted they had nested in a tree shorter than the trees chosen by the original two pairs.

Then one day I noticed something at the far side of the swamp, in another shorter tree. Yes! A fourth pair of herons had built a nest. The population had doubled and we hoped it was going to be a very noisy summer.

Sometime later, after the other four females had been sitting on their eggs for a few weeks, a fifth pair showed up and built a nest in a very tall tree nearby. Why were they nesting so late? Had their original nest been destroyed? Had one heron lost its mate and only now found another one? We’ll never know why they joined our group this late in the season; we just hope their young will have time to grow and fledge before the fall migration.

Now, in early July, the swamp is filled with arguing young. The original pairs have four and two youngsters in their nests. The Newbies are the proud parents of three blue gray young. I can’t see the far nest too well, but there appear to be two immature herons there. The fifth couple is still sitting. The racket is music to us.

All too soon, the young will test their wings and fly off after their parents. The swamp will become quiet again as we begin to speculate on how many heron pairs will visit us next summer and how many of their young will entertain us with a raucous cacophony of heron music.

 By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener