The small band of humans watched Tuesday as a great blue heron soared in huge circles over the small lake dimpled with raindrops.

"He's been dying to do that," mused Jessika Madison-Kennedy, avian nursery coordinator for the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center of Minnesota. Another bird stood amid a patch of water lilies, scoping out his new surroundings. The private lake in Inver Grove Heights was perfect heron habitat, with shallow water, lots of fish, reeds for cover, dead trees for roosting, a wild rookery nearby with adults that can lead them on the fall migration.

They were the last of nine heron chicks rescued in the aftermath of the May 22 tornado that ravaged parts of north Minneapolis and blew more than 180 nests from the treetops of Heron Island in the Mississippi River.

The other seven younglings were released two weeks ago at Coon Rapids Dam. That's where about half of the refugees from Heron Island appear to have resettled; the others are building on an island a bit downriver from the ruined rookery, near the Xcel Energy Riverside Plant in northeast Minneapolis.

The nine chicks had spent much of their three-month respite in a 20-yard-by-5-yard kennel, on property in Inver Grove Heights that belongs to Vance Grannis. Their kennel, originally built for rehabilitating swans, also held a pool stocked with fish, giving the birds a vital chance to practice hunting. They also could spread their wings and fly, though not far. The nine young were lucky. They came in healthy, if a bit stressed. The center's staff and volunteers worked hard to keep them that way until they were old enough to care for themselves.

The two adult herons who were rescued did not survive.

The chicks had to be handled with care; not so much for their own sake as for their caretakers', who wore gloves and goggles as protection from beaks. Madison-Kennedy said she'd heard an expert refer to great blue herons as "obnoxious."

"But I'm a little charmed by them," she said. "They're smart, successful birds."

Each showed a distinct personality, said Madison-Kennedy and her colleague Britney Larson. The one that took off first was the youngest, rescued when it was only about 2 weeks old. The other was guardian of the pen, "the feisty one who stood by the door," Madison-Kennedy laughed.

The herons had been transported to the shore of the lake in their crates, via Grannis' golf cart. The group trampled a muddy path through shoulder-tall grass to the water's edge. Madison-Kennedy and Larson had to jiggle the open crates a bit before one heron, and then the other emerged, one flapping away with long wingstrokes, the other settling into the water.

"It's amazing, when you think about it," said Phil Jenni, the center's executive director. "He's never seen anything bigger than that kennel."

The heron in the water seemed to mull that statement for a moment before it took off, circled the group once, croaked loudly, then soared off to take in the view. He continued, criss-crossing the lake for several minutes, before landing awkwardly, with much wing-flapping, at the top of a large tree. It sat there a long time, his gangly form silhouetted against a gray sky, as the other heron settled farther into the reedy shallows, already in hunting mode.

Next year, they could come back here, or they might head back to the Mississippi. Nobody really knows.

Larson and Madison-Kennedy watched both of the herons with obvious pride.

"I feel like we've accomplished something," Madison-Kennedy said. "I was happy to see them go, especially into such a good habitat. They're healthy birds and I know they'll be fine."

Maria Elena Baca • 612-673-4409