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I hear low-droning fogwhistles. But that's not what wakes me -- a duck does.
There's quacking out in the pond somewhere. It's a dabbler, I'm sure, but I've forgotten the difference between a mallard's and a black duck's call. I peer out between blinds: it's a mallard, a drake, standing on the ice by the open water at the outfall, quacking in a puzzled sort of way. Its misty here, foggy out on the bay. I hear the cardinal again this morning, more distantly than yesterday. When I check the thermometer, it's about 40 degrees (F). The thaw has continued into March. In late morning, I look up and a bit of the ocean fog has moved inland: the islands have done a slight fade. There beyond the tall one, the mallard walks slowly alone, the picture of woebegone haplessness. A bit later, I see some gulls have landed -- three of four of them, herring gulls, out on the greater expanse of darkening ice. The peck at the surface a bit before flying off, one by one, headed south. I notice, too, that you can make out the shallow sections of pond between the islands through the opaque window of thinning ice. After dark, I look up and see a thick fog has descended: the amber streetlamps just down the road are but pale glows. The temperature falls no lower than 39 by midnight. |
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| Bird Report is a discursive daily record of what's outside my high north window in Rockland, Maine, USA (44°07'N latitude, 69°07'W longitude). --Brian Willson | |||||
©1998 by 3IP |