Harlequin Duck Soap Opera

Mrs. H. was going about her business but keeping close to the Mister after such a hard migration.  The usual rigg-raff was in the neighborhood of course, but that was to be expected in NJ.  What she had not expected, afer all off this time, was a blip in her martial bliss.  And she most certainly did not expect it to come from Mister H’s roving eye.

When a beautiful alluring Oldsquaw started hanging around; she paid her no heed.  She was gorgeous, it’s true, but Mrs. H. knew what Mister H did not.  Ducks that completely changed their look in winter were not to be trusted.  She had often wondered what they were hiding from.  Why the disguise?  She snorted to herself; with that ridiculous long tail, it wasn’t even much of a disguise.  She watched the Oldsquaw out of the corner of her eye.  A tiny voice murmured in her head. “Pale ducks have more fun.”  The first tendril of jealousy wrapped around her heart.

Then to her horror, she noticed Mr. H, actually looking at the pale beauty too.  She had thought that Mister H only had eyes for her. Her opinion of the entire Oldsquaw species changed in an instant.  How dare that hussy try to intrude!

Mrs. H. flew into a rage.  After all she had done for him: the long flight; the nest building; bringing up the ducklings by herself.  How dare he look at another female.  What to Mr. H. had only been an idle glance, had tightened the tendril of jealousy of his mate.  Mr. H. had seen a side of  her that he had not known existed.  He hastily reassured the Mrs. that she alone reigned in his affections.  She had the dark beauty that he preferred and he vowed to himself that even in the secret recesses of his heart he would never think of her as dowdy again.  The Oldsquaw flew off once the fighting started.  She had merely been separated from her clan after a particularly long dive.

Tranquility restored; the H’s paddled off  resume fishing.

Bird Photography Weekly-Bald Eagle

Winter is a great time to look for Eagles.  We have them here in NJ on both the Delaware and Hudson Rivers as well as most reservoirs.  Many bird groups or Audubon Societies offer winter Eagle field trips.  Check it out and dress warm if you go. I almost froze my patootie once on an eagle trip.

But, let me tell you an Eagle story.

A few weeks ago, as I was driving around the Wanaque Reservoir I glanced through the trees and there were thousands of Common Mergansers sitting on the water.  Thinking there might be other things hanging around with such a large flock, I slowed up and squeezed into the only available hint of a pull-off.  I walked back to peer over the fence and through the trees.  Hoping for a better view, I followed the fence line until I found a thin opening through the trees, when all of a sudden the Merganzers exploded into a swirling mass of white.  I looked up expecting a Peregrine or some other raptor.  What I saw was a 3rd year immature Bald Eagle.  As soon as the flock would settle down onto another part of the water, he would buzz over the top of them causing them to take to flight again.  He did it repeatedly, I could almost hear the laughing.  I watched transfixed.  I had never seen anything like it.  After playing with the Merganser for several passes, he started to swoop low and drag his big yellow feet in the water that they had vacated.  Maybe he was  fishing?  He suddenly veered off to the north when a large adult Bald Eagle appeared.  It started to do the same thing though-flying low over the water and dragging its feet.  Within a few minutes the immature Bald Eagle was back and they both skimmed the water back and forth dragging their feet.  I watched them for perhaps 20 minutes.  They were still doing it when I left.  It was one of those birdwatching moments when I wished someone else had been there to see it.  Have you seen Eagles do this?  Were they fishing?

To see other birds check out Bird Photography Weekly.

The Addiction – a short story

Paul pulled up to the ATM, stuck in his card and punched in $300. He had held out as long as he could. He needed cash. There was no time to waste. The machine whirred and spit out a receipt that said INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. Paul slammed this fist against the front of the machine. He put the card back in and asked for $200. Again, INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. Crap. He HAD to get to the meeting place. He racked his brain. Maybe if he went home, he would be able to find some cash under the sofa cushions. He snorted at the idea. That would not be enough. Maybe he could call a friend and borrow some emergency money. He ran through a list of his friends in his head and sighed. He had already borrowed from everyone he knew. He frowned. As a last resort there was always credit. He wondered how close he was to maxing out.

Paul pulled into the empty lot of the fire station to check his bags. Maybe he had some unspent cash stashed from the last visit. His rummaged through all of the bags in the trunk. His stuff was there. Perhaps he hadn’t needed all of it. But it had been such a steal. As he was kicking the tires in frustration a cop car pulled in.

“Everything all right here?”

Paul nodded and quickly got back in the car and pulled away. The last thing he needed was a ticket. He drove to the park to see what was around. He scanned the area. Nothing. He sat in the parking lot with his head sunk on the steering wheel.

Well, that was it. He was finished. He wasn’t going to make it this time. He wanted it so bad he could taste it. Why did these things always happen before payday? He sat up and took several deep breaths. OK. Stay calm. Think clearly. How much would it actually cost?

Paul slowly got out his cell phone to talk to his fiancée. To beg her one last time.

“Honey, do you have any cash I can have?”

There was silence on the phone.

“Please tell me you are not going up there”, she replied.

He considered lying. The hesitation was enough. She hung up on him. He hit redial.

“What.”

“I promise after this time, I won’t do it again.”

“You promised last time.”

“I know, but I mean it this time.”

“You meant it last time.”

“ I know, but honey, it is a Red-footed Falcon. It doesn’t even live on this continent. It is a once in a lifetime thing.” He knew he was groveling. He didn’t care.

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone.

Was she weakening? He took a chance. “I love you.”

Again the sigh. “OK. But this the last time you chase after a bird.”

Paul hung up, turned the car around and headed home singing “On the Road Again.”

Redpoll Way Station on Their Northern Journey

I took a sip of crisp white wine then froze as my friend hissed, “Don’t move. There is a Redpoll at the feeder.” I angled my eyes over toward the feeder. Then slowly set my glass back on the table. At the feeder chowing down was a Redpoll, four more were in the trees eyeing us and the feeder, clearly wanting to eat but not terribly comfortable with our presence. We sat like statues until a Downy Woodpecker flew to a nearby suet feeder frightening the Redpolls. They all took off. I jumped up and hustled into the house to get my camera out of my bag.

I had popped over to a friend’s house for dinner and we were sitting in our coats on their a deck on a chilly early April evening, sipping white wine, eating Saga Blue, laughing and catching up. She had been emailing me about the Redpolls all week.

The feeders were hopping with Chickadees, Titmice, a family group of Downies, a Red-bellied, a smallish flock of Goldfinches and Redpolls. Her deck is ideally suited for bird photography. It is high and the property slopes down, so we were amidst the trees. We sat swilling wine; talking about work, blogging, Redpolls, the Adirondacks, writing, Redpolls, travel, what we were reading and Redpolls.

They are on their way north, her deck feeders were nothing but a way station on their trip but it was nice of them to lay-over for a few days.

The storm

Jeff eased the truck to a stop and reached down to put it into 4-wheel drive.  He rubbed his eyes; it had been a long night. The snow was coming down now as tiny glittery crystal shards. He peered through the windshield calculating whether he would be able to get up the drive.  24 inches was a lot of snow.  He lowered the plow, revved the motor and started up the long hill.

Six more houses to go-then home.

The west wind howled around the house and blew snow across the road as he finally turned into his driveway.  Lowering the blade and starting to scrape, by force of habit he glanced up at the house for lights.  There was a faint glimmer in the kitchen; he shrugged, he must have left the light on over the stove.  That was not like him, but he had stumbled out when he got the call.

After finishing the drive, he parked down by the garages – ready to leave again for the next round.  He gathered up the shovel and salt to start clearing the walk.  As he came around the side of the house, the front door opened a crack and a hand with a steaming cup of coffee reached out.  He stopped stunned.  He knew that hand.  His son, Mike, must have come home during the storm.  He smiled gratefully, took a big gulp, burnt his tongue and set the mug down on the porch.  He hoped Mikey would stick around for a while this time.

As Jeff  started to shovel a path to the back of the house, he noticed the indentations in the snow.  Apparently Mike had been out to fill the feeders sometime during the storm.  The feeding stations were packed.  There were birds perched on the branches of the trees and shrubs.  There were Cardinals and Juncos on the ground eating seed.

Suddenly they all scattered.

Jeff looked up scanning the sky.  It must be a hawk, but he saw nothing.  A few of the finches settled back down on the Nyger sack.  A Downy Woodpecker hadn’t moved from the suet cage that hung from a nail hammered into the oak.

Jeff stamped his feet and rested the shovel against the house.  He stretched his back.  His shoulders ached.  He turned to go in the house when a brown hawk streaked across the yard.  The birds disappeared again.  The downy looked up and froze, its beak smeared with suet.  The Sharp-shinned Hawk flew off banking to make another run.

The Downy flew up to the underside of a large horizontal branch and hunkered down.  It became a flat black and white smear.  Jeff froze too.  The Sharpie flew past the oak again completely ignoring him. The Downy did not move.  Jeff could see it; but hidden under the branch, the Sharpie could not.  The hawk circled a few more times, and then flew off still searching.

Jeff picked up the stone cold mug and opened the door to warmth and the smell of bacon. The snow had stopped but the sky still looked ominous.  He was ready for breakfast and a nap.  He glanced through the window as he shrugged out of his coat and saw the downy  once again up to its beak in suet.