16 November 2023 (fading light)

fading light

two ducks in the river

become rocks

4 March 2020 (ducks)

March wind

sailing downstream

pairs of ducks

22 January 2020 (open water)

open water

alongside the ducks

a crow gets a drink

15 January 2020 (ducks)

storm warning

a flock of mallards

flies upriver

February 24: Afternoon fog

From out of the fog

a flock of ducks

also following Route One.

Posted with Blogsy

March 11: Dabbling ducks

Oh, the painful illusion that spring might be coming soon. A day in the 40s highlighted by sunshine and birdsong, to be followed by another messy snowstorm tomorrow... A season on the cusp. The ducks, however, work with whatever they're given.

Before the next storm
ducks dabble in snowmelt
on the frozen lawn.

March 15: Hooded Merganser

Ducks are migrating northward. After only seeing one or two for days, observed a big cluster of Buffleheads on the river late today, along with a half dozen Ring-Necked Ducks and one Hooded Merganser, a male, showing off his full "hood," strutting his stuff upriver in all his glory. A very attractive duck, but no females (of his own species, at least) were around to appreciate him. Also on the water were two pairs of geese and a pair of Mallards. It's that time of year.

Lone merganser drake
on full display.
Ice still edges the river.

January 13: Wet enough for a duck

The view from inside looked bleak, foggy. As he stepped out the front door, my husband mused, "I wonder how wet it is out here." We had barely talken two steps on our walk into town for brunch when we both laughed. A drake Mallard stood there right in front of us, about to make his way across the street, hundreds of yards away from the river. On this day that felt more like mid-March than January, I guess it was wet enough for him to take a little stroll away from the water.

Why did the duck cross the road?

When we got to town, we had brunch at a restaurant on the waterfront. The inner harbor was brimming full, a just-past-new-moon high tide, the waters still and calm. Curtis Island in the outer harbor was muted by fog and looked farther away than it really was. As we ate, we watched a single coot meander among the empty floats and cocooned windjammers. A loon surfaced with a sea urchin in its bill. Along the public landing, the very air felt laden with moisture, our wet breath making clouds each time we exhaled.

Morning of mist, tides,
ducks pacing wet streets.
Our bodies contain oceans.