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A meeting of crows convenes across the quarry pond. A couple dozen of the big black flappers have come together in the trees to shout insults, confront each other, jockey for position, and otherwise mimic members of the U.S. Congress. They chase, they bicker, they rave. Their jumbled caws and croaks float through my east window, open again to some nice, warm air.
Occasionally, the crows go suddenly silent. Then, as abruptly, they begin again to bicker and rave. Grackles are chasing again, too, this morning -- but in lesser groups. I can only guess what treaties are being settled in this great congregation of crows.
In the pond, a pair of mallards inspects potential nesting sites. A pair of black ducks emerges from somewhere to keep tabs on this activity. The two species compete, I've noticed in past years: very likely the quarry will only support one family of dabblers, and mallards -- though perhaps a bit bolder at first -- seem always to lose to the black ducks in the long run. I watch the mallard hen flutter cautiously up into the evergreen thicket atop the middle island, her progress followed by the others from the pond. After peaking in the low 60s (F) in late morning, the temperature dips again into the 50s and holds steady at about 57 for most of the afternoon. A glance out to sea shows a colorless merging of bay and sky -- plenty of fog out there, doubtless. Setting, the sun emerges from beneath a cloud and sheds a wide, pink-ochre light before being swallowed by the horizon. I stand with chill air on my face and the gut-tinglingly hopeful comments of a solitary robin accompanying a gentle, lovely sunset. After dark, dueling fog whistles confirm conditions in the harbor. Late this evening, my thermometer shows 46 degrees. |
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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 | |||||
When the crows at last disperse, I hear a cardinal, chickadees, mourning doves, and a woodpecker thumping a dead snag somewhere. And two song sparrows approach the house to dine on spilled seed. I find myself hoping its yesterday's singing sparrow and a mate who answered his song. The two of them stick together, share a meal.
©1998 by 3IP |