Day 232: The Zen Master strikes a pose. To all purposes, he becomes a stick: grey, angular, motionless on the bank and remaining so, at least seemingly. A keen eye may notice that he drifts slightly with the breeze which lightly ripples the water, motion measured in the merest fraction of an inch. He settles onto his forward leg, the lightest change to his center of gravity. The muscles of his rear leg relax, the angle of his knee changing imperceptibly. His stance is a poem of tai chi balance and form, flowing with grace over a five-minute span to reach a new position. His rear leg is now forward, and the observer wonders how the transition occurred because she has not taken her eyes off him and registered no movement. Suddenly, there is a thrust of his beak downward, piercing the water like a blade. He tosses his head back and gulps a hapless amphibian down in a lump. There is a moment's pause, and then the Zen Master spreads his wings to take off in an incongruously ungainly flight, sweeping through the branches to look for another hunting ground.
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