Some birds are made for greeting cards. Cormorants are not among them. Their silhouette resembles an unfinished sketch: angular, dark, and utterly devoid of any desire to please.
One summer, a few years ago, I spotted a group of them at a reservoir in Greece. They were perched on the rusting remnants of a metal pontoon — on the wreckage itself. Clearly not for show. Every now and then they'd spread their wings, then return to staring motionless across the water. There was something deeply melancholic about their postures. From a human perspective, of course.
But there is no philosophy here. For a cormorant, drying out in the sun and wind is simply a practical necessity. Unlike most waterfowl, their feathers are not fully waterproof. Yet this very trait allows them to dive deeper and stay submerged longer, turning that awkward surface silhouette into a remarkably efficient underwater hunter.
While gulls squabble, ducks fuss about, and swans diligently uphold their reputation for grace, the cormorant simply sits, slowly drying in the breeze. Then it dives for fish. Then it dries again. Then it dives again. And it sees absolutely nothing wrong with this routine.
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