To all the world he is fishing.
He’s glad that’s what they think. It gives him the gravitas of purpose.
He is, in fact, lost in daydreams. If a fish came by, if it were right under his nose, sure he’d grab it, but only if it didn’t take too much effort. He is so distracted by his own reflection, though, that the fish are not in danger.
He admires his aquiline nose, the rakish lick of feather atop his head, his magnificent stature. Surely he should be fishing on the Seine with Parisian herons, not here on some podunk southern pond. Or maybe Thailand, wooing an exotic creature there.
But no. He’s here with the turtles (what dullards they are!) and the pond scum, admiring himself and wishing he could just fly off…