A liquid morning. As light came into the eastern sky, a thaw was underway. I heard the liquid sounds from bed—the drippings and rushings of car tires on wet pavement. All night rain must’ve dribbled from the low-hanging clouds that yet clung to the hillside this morning.

And I could hardly recognize the hillside: the even whiteness had gone, and in its place spread a mostly brown landscape, with patches of snow widely interspersed. I could hardly fathom so swift and efficient a snowmelt. Five or six crows spent the morning stalking the yard next door, and the fringes of the parking lot, whose fragrant floor lay now uncovered. Old acorns, I imagine, and possibly even earthworms. I’m not sure the temperature dipped below 40 (F) all night.

By early afternoon rays of sunlight began to flash intermittently through the cloud-cover. And suddenly, a wide clearing sky. That’s about when I felt drawn again to the breakwater. I’d heard tell of a king eider being been spotted there—who knows what I might see?

The soles of my Merrells hit the great granite blocks at shortly past three. Oddly, the shoreside held the greatest chop; the waves on the island side seemed calm by comparison. Right away I spotted a little raft of eiders. All common eiders—for some reason hanging out with a greater black-backed gull. Nearby, a collection of little buffleheads bobbed in the bouncing waves. The three species got flung together then—eider, black-back, buffleheads—and the little ducks, I noticed, kept an attentive eye on the big, carnivorous gull.

The waxing moon had reached a high point, and the tide was rising. Perhaps because of the warmth, a group of tidal rocks glowed almostl unnaturally green with algae. Though really, of course, the green was entirely natural.

I saw a large group of loons, five or six of them, sticking together a hundred yards or so away. I saw three black ducks in the protected cove at the base of the breakwater. Farther out, especially on the harbor side, I first heard, then saw, numerous long-tailed ducks—again marveling at their amazing musical call. (I’ve still, in facxt, got their voices stuck in my head.) Small bunches of red-breasted mergansers. Herring and ring-billed gulls. Another group of eiders to the east—but no kings among them, that I could see.

The semi-clearing sky was inspiringly lovely.

After walking its seven-eighths-mile length, head into a southwesterly wind, I paused in the lee of the lighthouse and listened. The first thing I heard was the voices of long-tails. The second was the high-pitched peeping of black guillemots—and there they were, three of the little birds, floating about a hundred feet away.

On the way back I watched a couple great cormorants watching me. And then long-tails began taking wing. First a group of four or five, then a group of eight or more. The males (I assume it’s the males) call in flight, and the combination of voice and great, wing-flapping speed made me dizzy. Then more long-tails, even a group of twenty or more. They flew from the harbor side around the light to the open water, perhaps taking their instinctive trip at the end of the day to where they’ll spend the night. Whatever their motivation, they fly so fast that I couldn’t help but stand in awe. I counted at least a hundred long-tails making this late-afternoon flight.

The light turned pastel pink and blue as I finished up my circuit. And a series of breaking waves swept in from the southeast, cresting over the tidal rocks where harbor seals sometimes lounge. I watched a half-dozen red-breasted mergansers fly swiftly past. I can’t remember the last time I beheld such varied, lovely light, in so short a time, in the sky.

Today’s List

American crow
Herring gull
Ring-billed gull
Rock pigeon
Common eider
Greater black-backed gull
Bufflehead
Red-breasted merganser
Black duck
Common loon
Long-tailed duck
Black guillemot
Great cormorant