The stalker sat motionless, waiting for his prey to come into view. He didn't even attempt to disguise himself. To those passing by, he was just another inhabitant of the marshes.
No, he was looking for just the right victim. The slow, the unsuspecting, the perfect patsy.
He waits quietly, biding his time. He might watch for hours before striking.
But when he does... it's game over.
|Heron on Irondequoit Creek, October 2012|
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