Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: heron
Posted with BlogsyJuly 3: Dessert
Kristen Lindquist
Salt marsh at sunset--
we finish our ice cream cones,
heron flaps slowly past.
January 25: Heron in the snow
Kristen Lindquist
March 30: Feels like spring
Kristen Lindquist
At last, a beautiful day that feels like spring. We head to Weskeag Marsh to see what birds have newly arrived, but the tide is high, the river banks filled to the brim, and we only see a single Great Blue Heron and a pair of crows.
Elsewhere, though, titmice, cardinals, and House Finches fill the mild air with song. Walking the boardwalk along the edge of Rockland Harbor, we hear pigeons cooing under our feet, tucked away in dank love nests under the walkway, presumably above the high water line. And in the harbor itself, close to shore, some drake eiders also coo, pitching the woo to the russet hens.
Driving home, we watch a crow fly over Route One with a long twig in its bill, presumably working on a nest. Love is in the air. And that particular excitement we all feel this time of year when a day like this makes us feel certain that someday soon the snow will all melt, the ice will leave the ponds, and slowly, leaf buds will unfurl.
Heron hunched, alone,
the whole marsh to itself.
Soon, says the blue sky.
Elsewhere, though, titmice, cardinals, and House Finches fill the mild air with song. Walking the boardwalk along the edge of Rockland Harbor, we hear pigeons cooing under our feet, tucked away in dank love nests under the walkway, presumably above the high water line. And in the harbor itself, close to shore, some drake eiders also coo, pitching the woo to the russet hens.
Driving home, we watch a crow fly over Route One with a long twig in its bill, presumably working on a nest. Love is in the air. And that particular excitement we all feel this time of year when a day like this makes us feel certain that someday soon the snow will all melt, the ice will leave the ponds, and slowly, leaf buds will unfurl.
Heron hunched, alone,
the whole marsh to itself.
Soon, says the blue sky.
April 6: Heron in flight
Kristen Lindquist
I should never answer the phone when I'm working late. Just as I was leaving work I got a particularly unpleasant call, the kind that manages to depress that feeling of lightness I often get at the end of a long work day (especially now, the hours of remaining daylight still seem like such a gift). I slouched toward the car in a dour mood when I just happened to glance up. A great blue heron flapped across the still-blue sky, right over my head--the first one I've seen this year. As I drove home, my eyes followed the big bird slowly winging its way down river, then bearing east over the rocky ridge of Mount Battie. A moment resonant with ancient beauty, just when I needed it.
Watching the heron's
slow seaward flight erases
unease from my mind.
Watching the heron's
slow seaward flight erases
unease from my mind.
November 7: Cattle Egret
Kristen Lindquist
I rode the morning ferry out to the island of Vinalhaven to spend part of the day birding with a friend who lives there. A naturalist by profession, Kirk knows where to find the birds, and despite the rather bleak, chilly, and eventually rainy day, we had a good time looking. I've gotten out birding so infrequently lately that being able to spend a concentrated amount of time watching any avian life is welcome. So to be shown a bird I hadn't previously seen in Maine within ten minutes of getting off the ferry was bonus.
Cattle egrets are a small white heron generally seen well south of Maine. Until today, the only ones I'd seen were in Florida and North Carolina. How this one ended up on an island off the Maine coast is one of those mysteries of migration. As I disembarked, I ran into one of the ferry captains who is also a birder--a birder who particularly enjoys chasing rarities. When I explained that I was out there so Kirk could show me a cattle egret, he complained, "Kirk never tells me anything!" An island resident had recently described to him seeing a strange bird, like an "all-white gull with a big yellow bill." It suddenly dawned on him that she'd been describing the cattle egret. He'd have to try to see it on a future trip.
Kirk and I headed off through town to "The Ballfield," where he'd photographed the bird not an hour earlier right next to his car. A woman driving past stopped to tell us that she had recently seen the egret following Wizard. Turns out Wizard is her horse. That made sense to Kirk, because the bird had first been spotted on Greens Island following a small flock of sheep. They got their name because they follow livestock, eating the insects such animals attract. So we went off to see Wizard. Before we got there, however, we spotted the egret hunched over in the middle of a lawn. Kirk set up his scope and we got great looks at this southern visitor.
We were soon joined by a neighbor who knew Kirk and who may or may not have been slightly inebriated. Even though we were clearly already watching the egret, he wanted to be sure we saw the bird, gesticulating wildly at it. "I knew you'd want to see it, because I know you like birds and sh*t," he declared. He had seen the egret earlier standing in a ditch full of minnows, eating. "It looked to me like a f**king big white sandpiper!" he said excitedly. "Is this rare? Because I've never seen a bird like this here before." Kirk assured him that it was very unusual.
You'd think that the rest of the day's birding would have been anticlimactic after that. But although I didn't pick up any more new Maine species, every stop had its highlights. At State Beach, a big flock of pale and lovely snow buntings flew back and forth above the pebbly shore. Horned larks hung out in the road with a single late-migrating semipalmated plover. A great blue heron croaked loudly as it flew in to land on the opposite shore. At Folly Pond, we spotted eight eagles, including a pair of adults perched side by side on a spruce bough, and a couple of brightly plumaged male wood ducks drifted past with a pied-billed grebe. At a culvert called The Boondoggle, a lone yellowlegs stood knee-deep in what must have been freezing cold water while hooded mergansers drifted and bobbed. The Basin offered up hosts of Canada geese and several more duck species.
Even the ferry ride home was not without adventure. My ferry captain friend invited me to ride back to Rockland up on the bridge, which offered great views of flocks of Bonaparte's gulls, a zillion more loons, big rafts of eiders, some surf scoters, and one gannet. He recounted the day last summer when he'd seen an albatross fly across the bow. The passage across the bay was a rough one, with swells rocking the ferry hard enough to knock over a chair at one point. The spray of whitecaps corrugated the surface of the sea. Thanks to turning back the clocks last night, twilight (and a cold rain) were settling in over Rockland Harbor as we pulled into the ferry slip. As we got ready to unload, a seal popped its head out of the water just off the port side, giving us all a long look as if wondering what we were doing out in this weather. Cattle egret, I wanted to tell the seal. And eiders, mergansers, and crossbills. I don't think it would have understood.
Brisk island wind, rain.
Egret and I share a look,
both visitors here.
Cattle egrets are a small white heron generally seen well south of Maine. Until today, the only ones I'd seen were in Florida and North Carolina. How this one ended up on an island off the Maine coast is one of those mysteries of migration. As I disembarked, I ran into one of the ferry captains who is also a birder--a birder who particularly enjoys chasing rarities. When I explained that I was out there so Kirk could show me a cattle egret, he complained, "Kirk never tells me anything!" An island resident had recently described to him seeing a strange bird, like an "all-white gull with a big yellow bill." It suddenly dawned on him that she'd been describing the cattle egret. He'd have to try to see it on a future trip.
Kirk and I headed off through town to "The Ballfield," where he'd photographed the bird not an hour earlier right next to his car. A woman driving past stopped to tell us that she had recently seen the egret following Wizard. Turns out Wizard is her horse. That made sense to Kirk, because the bird had first been spotted on Greens Island following a small flock of sheep. They got their name because they follow livestock, eating the insects such animals attract. So we went off to see Wizard. Before we got there, however, we spotted the egret hunched over in the middle of a lawn. Kirk set up his scope and we got great looks at this southern visitor.
We were soon joined by a neighbor who knew Kirk and who may or may not have been slightly inebriated. Even though we were clearly already watching the egret, he wanted to be sure we saw the bird, gesticulating wildly at it. "I knew you'd want to see it, because I know you like birds and sh*t," he declared. He had seen the egret earlier standing in a ditch full of minnows, eating. "It looked to me like a f**king big white sandpiper!" he said excitedly. "Is this rare? Because I've never seen a bird like this here before." Kirk assured him that it was very unusual.
You'd think that the rest of the day's birding would have been anticlimactic after that. But although I didn't pick up any more new Maine species, every stop had its highlights. At State Beach, a big flock of pale and lovely snow buntings flew back and forth above the pebbly shore. Horned larks hung out in the road with a single late-migrating semipalmated plover. A great blue heron croaked loudly as it flew in to land on the opposite shore. At Folly Pond, we spotted eight eagles, including a pair of adults perched side by side on a spruce bough, and a couple of brightly plumaged male wood ducks drifted past with a pied-billed grebe. At a culvert called The Boondoggle, a lone yellowlegs stood knee-deep in what must have been freezing cold water while hooded mergansers drifted and bobbed. The Basin offered up hosts of Canada geese and several more duck species.
Even the ferry ride home was not without adventure. My ferry captain friend invited me to ride back to Rockland up on the bridge, which offered great views of flocks of Bonaparte's gulls, a zillion more loons, big rafts of eiders, some surf scoters, and one gannet. He recounted the day last summer when he'd seen an albatross fly across the bow. The passage across the bay was a rough one, with swells rocking the ferry hard enough to knock over a chair at one point. The spray of whitecaps corrugated the surface of the sea. Thanks to turning back the clocks last night, twilight (and a cold rain) were settling in over Rockland Harbor as we pulled into the ferry slip. As we got ready to unload, a seal popped its head out of the water just off the port side, giving us all a long look as if wondering what we were doing out in this weather. Cattle egret, I wanted to tell the seal. And eiders, mergansers, and crossbills. I don't think it would have understood.
Brisk island wind, rain.
Egret and I share a look,
both visitors here.
April 15: Swamp Sparrow
Kristen Lindquist
This morning after a meeting in Rockland I made a short side-trip to Weskeag Marsh before heading back to the office. A birder friend has been reporting glossy ibises and gadwalls. Of course I didn't see either of those locally uncommon birds, but it was a rewarding trip nonetheless. About a dozen great blue herons were scattered throughout the marsh among the gulls, as well as one great and one snowy egret. A kingfisher perched on a branch, making short forays for fish. One heron flew in close and seemed to stalk a large piece of plastic that had blown into the marsh. I wondered if it was curious. But I soon realized what was really holding its attention, as it suddenly stabbed into the shallow water right next to the plastic and brought up a little fish. (I assume it was a little fish--whatever it was rapidly vanished down the heron's long throat.) A red-tailed hawk soared over the tree line, scouting its borders. I could hear the short song of a Savannah sparrow in the weeds, and then, the musical trill of a swamp sparrow.
At least I thought it was a swamp sparrow. Every year I seem to learn a few more bird songs. Last year I picked up the swamp sparrow song and was able to identify a few birds by ear that I later confirmed with my binoculars. I'm not good in general at telling apart all the trilling songbirds. Palm and pine warblers, juncos, chipping and swamp sparrows--listening to them on recordings just makes it more confusing. So I began to second guess myself--maybe it was a palm warbler? They're migrating through in numbers right now, so wouldn't that make more sense? I had to track the bird down in an alder thicket to be sure. And I was quietly proud of myself when it did indeed turn out to be a swamp sparrow--proof that I had really added another bird song to my crowded brain.
I was also excited because the swamp sparrow's a very pretty bird, with a red crown, grey face, white throat, light breast, and feathering in earth tones from buff to rust to sienna.
For many minutes I watched him, admiring these subtle details of plumage, till he dropped out of sight. Across the road where there's a little pond, another swamp sparrow sang. A harrier soared up over the pannes as I gave one last look out my windshield. And I headed back to work with a smile on my face.
Swamp sparrow's sweet trill--
such simple satisfaction
in naming that song.
At least I thought it was a swamp sparrow. Every year I seem to learn a few more bird songs. Last year I picked up the swamp sparrow song and was able to identify a few birds by ear that I later confirmed with my binoculars. I'm not good in general at telling apart all the trilling songbirds. Palm and pine warblers, juncos, chipping and swamp sparrows--listening to them on recordings just makes it more confusing. So I began to second guess myself--maybe it was a palm warbler? They're migrating through in numbers right now, so wouldn't that make more sense? I had to track the bird down in an alder thicket to be sure. And I was quietly proud of myself when it did indeed turn out to be a swamp sparrow--proof that I had really added another bird song to my crowded brain.
I was also excited because the swamp sparrow's a very pretty bird, with a red crown, grey face, white throat, light breast, and feathering in earth tones from buff to rust to sienna.
Swamp sparrow's sweet trill--
such simple satisfaction
in naming that song.
March 2: Herons
Kristen Lindquist
Watching herons stalk their prey is a lesson in patience. Oblivious of onlookers, the heron ever... so... slowly... moves each foot forward, its gaze fixed on something in the water or grass. If the bird is in deeper water, it may simply stand there staring down into the murky depths. It's like watching someone meditate, so intently is the bird focused, so completely in the present moment. For the birder, it's a meditation on a meditation. The bird stalks so carefully, for long, drawn-out minutes. Then, just as you're about to lose interest and look away, bang! The bird strikes. For a brief moment, a bug or little fish squiggles in the bird's bill. You see the bird swallow and it continues on to seek out its next target. With that care and attention, I'm sure the bird doesn't miss often.
On Sanibel Island over the past three days we saw the following species of heron or egret: great blue heron, little blue heron, tricolored heron, snowy egret, cattle egret, great egret, green heron, reddish egret, and yellow-crowned night heron. This time of year, the main activities of these birds--other than croaking at each other--seems to be this interminable quest for food. Depending on the species, we saw them wading in the salt estuaries, picking among the mangroves, or patrolling the roadsides.
Slow, stalking heron
inching through the mangrove roots:
patience rewarded.
On Sanibel Island over the past three days we saw the following species of heron or egret: great blue heron, little blue heron, tricolored heron, snowy egret, cattle egret, great egret, green heron, reddish egret, and yellow-crowned night heron. This time of year, the main activities of these birds--other than croaking at each other--seems to be this interminable quest for food. Depending on the species, we saw them wading in the salt estuaries, picking among the mangroves, or patrolling the roadsides.
Slow, stalking heron
inching through the mangrove roots:
patience rewarded.
Little blue heron
Yellow-crowned night-heron