We were looking at a Northern Harrier, “the grey ghost,” the man with the binoculars said it was called. The Gray Ghost swooped and wove in and out of the twilight shadows in the distance. After a while, I looked back. A Great Blue Heron stood still about ten feet behind the man. “Looks like someone else is interested in Northern Harriers,” I nodded at the Herron and the man with the binoculars turned as the Herron stepped past him, gliding into reeds and grass swaying his stately head with no reaction to us, and strode off leaving us as if we did not exist in his world. His feet made no sound.