It’s hard to believe, but today is the first day of August.
August is notorious for hot, hazy, humid days, better known as the Dog Days of Summer. But as this photo from August 2024 shows, when a cold front pushed through, it used the energy from the heat and humidity, along with the dew point, to create some pop-up thunderstorms.
The cooling after the storms is a welcome relief, but given August’s reputation, the pleasant weather seldom lasts.
Of course, August offers more than uncertain weather. County and state fairs are held. Back-to-school sales entice parents and their offspring to purchase new clothing for their students, who will soon begin a new school year.
Farmers are literally making hay and hoping for rain to quench their grain crops. Golden, hazy sunsets will close out productive August days.
And for the record, August officially begins the fall bird migration, with some birds already molting into their non-breeding plumage.
So, welcome to August, and embrace all that she has to offer.
An August thunderstorm formed over Shenandoah National Park. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Our first look at the ocean from the cottage where we stayed in Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Without realizing it, my wife and I drove through rural Maine toward our destination on the road we needed to take to our friend’s cottage. We had the road’s name but not the state route number.
We needed to stop at a grocery store to pick up butter and eggs. Since the country highway went through no towns, there were no stores to be found.
I was shocked when we came to US 1, the highway that runs southwest to northeast, essentially paralleling the Maine coast. We headed into Bath to buy the needed foodstuffs. It’s a 30-minute drive from the cottage to the closest grocery store in Bath. So, our stop was required.
Heightened anticipation propelled the drive south to the island. The ubiquitous birches, maples, and evergreens line the gently winding road to the cottage, only interrupted by bridges across inlets and streams, and marshes and ponds where Great Egrets and Snowy Egrets probed among the reeds and rushes.
When we turned onto the narrow road to the cottage, fiddlehead ferns, balsams, and birches welcomed us. So did our host when we finally arrived.
The refreshing ocean breezes, the roar of the waves, the scent of the pines, and the familiar birdsongs offered a welcoming chorus, too. Never had settling in been so easy.
An hour later, we stood on the dock at Five Islands, Maine, for the annual blessing of the boats. The name comes from the five islands in the harbor. A local pastor said a patriotic prayer for safety and a successful lobster season, and the lobstermen and their friends and families gathered on their boats. Other moored boats provided picturesque opportunities.
As soon as a memorial wreath had been tossed into the water in remembrance of those hardy fishermen who had passed on, we found a picnic table that sheltered us from the stiff wind and enjoyed our sack lunches.
Most lobstermen powered up their boats and headed out to ply their well-hewn skills. Others, on bigger boats, stayed to party the afternoon away.
Teenagers separated the luscious lobster meat from its hard gray shell. They provided the crucial step between the marine crustacean and the delicious $30 lobster rolls. I hoped they were paid well.
Soon, a box truck backed onto the dock, and a 450-pound Bluefin Tuna was hauled up, prepared for market, and trucked off. It was fascinating to watch the efficiency and cooperation of people who knew what they were doing and were doing it well.
As we walked back to the car, I couldn’t help but notice the orange lichens painting the rock retaining walls by the steep embankments. The wood-shingled cottages sat askew overlooking the harbor.
By the time we returned to the cottage, the low tide had revealed the sandy beach hidden by the ocean at high tide. The sand expanded wider and wider as it approached the receding Atlantic.
It drew me down like a moth to a porch light. I was mesmerized by the giant granite boulders that line the embankment in front of the cottage. I stepped lightly, making sure this septuagenarian didn’t allow his curiosity to override his common sense.
I explored the broadness of the sand and photographed other cottages hanging high above the temporary beach. Three hours later, the sea once again filled the bay, and the sound of the waves crashing and the cool onshore breeze ensured a night of restful, undisturbed sleep.
A cornfield with a view in rural Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Somehow, we left New Hampshire for next-door Maine and ended up in Norway.
We left North Conway, New Hampshire, and the GPS took us on an unexpected route. We drove all country roads on the way to Maine’s capital, Augusta. We passed through one small town after another. Winding roads lined by deciduous and evergreen trees and occasional farm fields connected all the towns to one another.
We drove through Fryeburg, Lovell, Sweden, and Waterford. But we had to stop in Norway. Unlike the other burgs, welcoming storefronts lined Norway’s Main Street. It was lunchtime, so we decided to stop.
The quirky creativity of Norway, Maine.
When we exited our vehicle, music drew us eastward along Main Street. We looked for a restaurant as we went. We found the source of the music in no time. A lone musician played at the town’s weekly farmer’s market across the street.
We checked it out and kept walking. The entrance to the local food coop stopped me in my tracks. Its eclectic entrance earned a photo. A few paces later, I stopped again to take a photo of the Weary Club of Norway Maine.
I had no idea what that was, and they weren’t meeting, so I looked it up. The “wearies” formed their social club 100 years ago. They were “the Shakers and Dealers in cedar shavings, social gossip, political wisdom, and Yankee philosophy.”
The Kennebec Cabin Company. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Not finding a place to eat, we kept moving over the rolling, tree-studded landscape and stopped in Manchester, Maine, at the Maine Cabin Masters gift shop and restaurant. Its official name is the Kennebec Cabin Company.
We ate outdoors in the shade to avoid the extreme heat. The house is the gift shop with the typical tourist offerings and prices.
After lunch, we checked out the striking state capital building and drove to an adjacent town set on the bank of the Kennebec River for some ice cream. It was a refreshing way to end an intriguing day.
The Maine State Capitol Building. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The Ellis River at Jackson, New Hampshire. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
There’s a lot to like about driving on Pinkham Notch Road, which is New Hampshire Route 16. We wanted to revisit some of the places we had seen seven years ago, when we initially visited the area.
After leaving the Mt. Washington area, we took the long way around to our hotel in Gorham, New Hampshire. We headed southeast to Pinkham Notch Road.
Our first stop was Jackson, a sleepy resort town on the Ellis River. The historic Honeymoon Covered Bridge, built in 1876, spans the river and is the village’s icon. Jackson also houses cute cottages, tourist businesses, and country inns.
The road basically follows the flow of the Ellis River, whose headwaters begin on Mt. Washington. The Glen Ellis Falls crash down 64 feet in a rock-filled narrow gorge a few miles north of Jackson.
To access the falls, you have to cross through a pedestrian tunnel under Route 16 and wind your way along the river, down rocky steps, and on a trail that’s occasionally muddy in spots. The trek is well worth it, however. Amid a forest of birch trees and evergreens, the rushing waters crash against giant, jagged boulders before falling and continuing down the mountainside.
Just up the road is the AMC Pinkham Notch visitor center. It’s the place for serious hikers to check in, rest, and shower. The Appalachian Trail that descends from Mt. Washington slides behind the center and crosses the road at Pinkham Notch.
The Pinkham Notch visitor center. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A little farther up the highway is the entrance to the Wildcat Mountain ski area. If you’re up for it, the auto road to Mt. Washington is right across the road.
If you enjoy the outdoors in any season, the Pinkham Notch area in New Hampshire offers activities for everyone.
Glen Ellis Falls, Gorham, New Hampshire. Video by Bruce Stambaugh
The iconic view of Stowe, VT, without the fall colors. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Before visiting friends in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, my wife and I enjoyed the eye-pleasing scenery of the Green Mountain State.
After a stop at Cabot’s Cheese, we visited Stowe, Vermont’s tourist magnet. Despite the excessive heat, we weren’t disappointed. The young lady at the visitor center helped us make the most of our limited time there.
The Little River flows behind the Stowe Community Church. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We walked through part of the town to photograph the iconic church with its towering steeple and to find the recommended restaurant for a refreshing salad and hydration. We found both.
After lunch, we took the Stowe Hollow self-guiding tour and found some incredible scenes even in summer. I can only imagine these vistas decked out in fall’s brilliant, warm colors.
Even with fifty shades of green all around, we found the countryside surrounding Stowe stunning. From unique barns and homes with views to covered bridges and the Green Mountains as the backdrop, we left Stowe amazed but ready to fellowship with our friends.
The world’s tallest filing cabinet, Burlington, Vermont. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
When friends in Ohio learned we would be staying overnight in Burlington, Vermont, they suggested we check out an oddity.
After a smooth drive from the Pocomos to Burlington, my wife and I went looking for a good place for dinner. Our Ohio friends said we should check out the world’s tallest file cabinet. So we did.
I’m not sure how they knew about this unusual landmark, because no signs mark the way to it like other touristy places. There’s not even a sign explaining why, how, or when this “monument” was installed.
Thanks to Google Maps, we found it with ease. This amazing structure stands like an unmarked grave in the corner of the parking lot of a nondescript local business.
Best of all, the restaurant we chose was right next door. I enjoyed my monster smash burger and Vermont maple lemonade to wash it down.
Chimney Swifts in flight. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Chimney Swifts are some of my favorite birds. I have adored these magnificent little birds for a long time. Let me count the ways they bring me joy.
More than likely, you’ll hear these gregarious birds before you see them. Their chattering call, while they are furiously flapping their pointy wings, alerts you to their presence.
I find their looping flight patterns intriguing, too. They like to fly overhead, wings furiously flapping, sometimes dipping low, and then back up in a rapid arch.
If you miss them on their first pass, stand still, and they are likely to return, perhaps bringing others with them as they skim the sky for any and all insects. If you have Chimney Swifts in the neighborhood, you likely won’t be bothered much by mosquitoes.
Chimney Swifts are equally at home in cities, suburbs, and rural areas. As long as these chubby-looking birds have a chimney in which to roost, they will make themselves at home.
It’s only appropriate that Chimney Swifts built their nests on the insides of chimneys. Their sooty colored feathers blend perfectly with whatever powdery substances they might pick up as the birds zip in and out of their chosen chimneys.
To clean themselves, Chimney Swifts will zoom over lakes and rivers, suddenly dip into the water’s surface, and then speed off to air-dry themselves.
Before North American colonization, Chimney Swifts originally built their nests in hollowed trees, on cliff faces, and in caves. Once White pioneers built their brick chimneys, the cigar-shaped birds adapted to a new habitat.
They build their nests on the inside of chimneys by using a glue-like saliva secreted from under their tongues. Chimney Swifts use their long claws to cling to the side of chimneys. The birds cannot perch like most other birds.
Some people cap or screen their chimneys to keep birds out. That, coupled with newer chimney designs and sizes, has led to a decline in the Chimney Swift population in recent years.
When we lived in Ohio, our home was built on an Amish farm. We had Chimney Swifts every year, and we lived there for 38 years.
The stubby chimney on our former Ohio home. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I greatly enjoyed the aerial antics of the chattering Chimney Swifts. In the evenings, I would stand and watch as the birds swirled in loops over the house, dropping closer with every pass until they would dive into our short chimney.
Before we added air conditioning to the house, I would sometimes sleep on the couch in the lower level of our bilevel home on hot, humid summer days. There, the temperature was cooler.
We had a wood-burning fireplace, and when the Chimney Swifts had young in their nests, it seemed like they would feed all night long. The force of their powerful wings, helping them to brake once they entered the chimney, rattled the glass fireplace doors.
An adult bird once fell into the fireplace because I hadn’t secured the damper all the way closed. I would don thick gloves, carefully remove the bird, and let it free outside to fly again.
During the colder months, I loved to sit on the raised hearth in front of the firebox and enjoy the radiant heat and the aromatic aroma of seasoned wild cherry, oak, and ash wood chunks blazing away. The warmth penetrated my shirt, soothing my aching back.
Once the Chimney Swifts arrived in April, however, no more fires were built until the birds left in early October. The birds spent the winter in northwestern South America.
They migrated north over Central America to all areas of the United States east of the Rocky Mountains, where they breed and raise their young. Come October, they began their extended journey back to South America.
Our Virginia home doesn’t have a fireplace, but several of the close neighbors do. Consequently, I can continue to enjoy the chitter-chatter of the helpful Chimney Swifts as they zoom around the neighborhood.
The Blue Grass Valley above the town of Blue Grass, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
My second visit to Blue Grass Valley paid off. The birds and the bucolic scenery lure me.
This remote Appalachian location serves as the border between Virginia and West Virginia. According to the Virginia Department of Wildlife and Recreation, the Blue Grass Valley runs for 7.2 miles. But that’s only measuring from the village of Blue Grass down the valley to US 250.
The northernmost section of the agricultural valley, abutted by sharp slopes on either side, is the place I enjoy the most. Besides its natural beauty, it features abundant wildlife, including lots of birds.
In the spring, songbirds and raptors nest amid varied terrain, with steep hillside pastures on one side and thick woodlots on the other. Brushy fencerows and fallow fields entice Golden-winged Warblers and American Kestrels to live as neighbors.
Since I focus on birds, the steep northwesterly part of the valley offers ample opportunities to see my target species, the Golden-winged Warbler. Of course, timing is everything. Once a report confirms the presence of the Golden-winged Warblers, I head for the hills as soon as the opportunity allows me.
The highland forests of the area are one of the few confirmed locations where the sought-after birds nest. Wait too long, and the birds will be heading south again once their babies fledge.
I had only ever seen one Golden-winged Warbler before, and that was during the Biggest Week in Birding festival in northwest Ohio several years ago. The bird came so close to me that I couldn’t get a sharp photo of it with my telephoto lens.
I couldn’t find the bird on my first trip to Blue Grass. But I arrived too late in the day. On this trip, I was determined to arrive early for a better chance of seeing this gorgeous bird with golden wingbars and a yellow crown to match.
There are only three ways to get to Blue Grass Valley from Harrisonburg, Virginia, and none of them are straight or flat. I chose the middle route, which took me along the narrowest mountain roads but also offered the best birding opportunities.
Blue Grass is less than 60 miles from my home, but with multiple mountain passes and horseshoe curves to navigate, the drive takes me two hours with breaks to bird and rest.
My first stop was Shenandoah Mountain, the eastern front range of the Appalachian Mountains. It happens to be the boundary between Virginia and West Virginia in the George Washington National Forest.
Male and female Red Crossbills graveling on Shenandoah Mountain. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A couple of birders were exiting their cars when I pulled in. We were there to see the Red Crossbills. That area is one of the few spots in the mountains where they live year-round.
A flock of the Red Crossbills chattered in the trees overhead before diving down to “gravel” in the deep red clay. The birds apparently desire the minerals in that particular spot. I captured several decent shots of the beautiful birds, and then I continued west down the mountain.
The Virginia/West Virginia lines meander like the fast-flowing streams that have carved out the valleys. So, it’s common in this westernmost part of Virginia to cross into and out of each state numerous times.
In fact, the farmhouse where I birded was in Virginia, while the barn, not 50 yards away, was in West Virginia. The farmlane served as the demarcation.
The view from the upper trail.
The house and barn from the lower trail.
Virginia on the left, and West Virginia on the right of the lane.
It was 9:30 by the time I reached the Virginia Ornithological Society farm where the Golden-winged Warblers often nest. Birds were singing away as I headed for the well-marked trails and bathed in the songs, the shade, and nature’s lushness.
I was in awe of the vibrant ferns beneath the leafed-out trees. A clear-winged moth landed in tall grass right in front of me. A single pink wild rose broke the green palette. Still, birds were my objective.
Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, Gray Catbirds, Red-eyed Vireos, and Eastern Towhees sang a concerto for an audience of one. It was music to my ears, nevertheless. Skippers, Tiger Swallowtails, and even an early Monarch butterfly flit and fluttered in the dappled light of the forest.
Scenes from my birding walk. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh
I saw a flash to my left. It was a Golden-winged Warbler. I raised my camera and snapped a horrible photo of the bird. But the golden wings and head were distinctive despite the fuzzy photo. My phone’s birding app confirmed the bird’s song.
As the sun rose higher, so did the temperatures, and the birdsong diminished. I set my sights on capturing landscape photos of this beloved valley, with its intersecting hollows that make the valley appear wider than it really is.
As I drove toward the town with its ramshackle buildings and a few red-brick and white-clapboard houses, I stopped several times to capture the essence of the rural valley. Knowing these Appalachian folks’ desire for privacy, I tried to be as discreet as possible while capturing the paradise they live in. The few ranging cattle I saw didn’t seem to mind, however.
I marveled at how steep these pastures were, rivaling those I had seen in the Lauterbrunnen Valley in Switzerland. Of course, they weren’t quite as high, averaging 3,000 ft. above sea level.
Wispy cirrus clouds hung high in the cerulean sky. Below, many shades of green ran high and low, broken only by brown fences and farmstead buildings.
An iconic shot of the valley.
Fenced in.
A long lane.
Outbuildings.
Giant oaks.
Up a hollow.
A typical farmstead.
The country estate after Hardscrabble Rd.
As a photographer, I loathed the random stringing of power lines that zigzagged down the valley. Of course, the locals needed their electricity, and the power company always took the path of least resistance.
I marveled at the long dirt lanes that ran far up the hollows and disappeared beneath forested mountaintops. Irregular stands of ancient oak trees guarded weathered hay barns.
Before entering the little burg, I stopped to take a photo of a street sign that revealed the aptly named road, “Hardscrabble.” The nearest farmhouse and bank barn, however, proved to be the contrary.
At the town’s three-way stop sign, I turned left and drove alongside the southern branch of the Potomac River. Its headwaters originate two miles to the south.
When I returned to Shenandoah Mountain, I stopped for a break from the winding switchbacks of US 250. It was a historic Civil War monument commemorating the Confederate defensive breastworks used against advancing Union soldiers.
From that vantage point, I could view the mountains from which I had come, and I was only halfway home. Despite the exhausting drive, I’ll return next spring.
Looking west from Shenandoah Mountain on the way home. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
My wife and I spent the morning of our 55th wedding anniversary birding. That’s about as exciting as it gets for septegenarian celebrations.
Though spring bird migration had been ongoing for a month, the early warblers were only now beginning to be seen and heard in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. I wanted to see and literally hear those lovely, high-pitched songs. I know the term “literally” is overused, but this was my first bird outing with hearing aids.
I’m a very curious person, and I wanted to hear what I was missing in my latter years. Previously, I had to depend on the ears of younger birders to know, for example, that a Cape May Warbler was near. The bird’s thin, high-pitched “see, see, see, see” call was beyond my perception.
I knew March 27 was too early for the Cape May. But equipped with my hearing aids, perhaps I could catch the calls of other early-arriving warblers. So, off we went to a noted birding hotspot in Augusta County, Virginia, Bells Lane.
My wife occasionally accompanies me on my birding adventures, but she wouldn’t call herself an avid birder. I appreciate her company and enjoy showing her a particular species when I spot one.
Even though Bells Lane is in the city limits of Staunton, its geography and topography shout country. The narrow road meanders up, down, and around hills and valleys from a US highway to a state road. From its zenith, traffic buzzes north and south along I-81, though the noise barely reaches the beloved birding location.
With its proximity to the city, people use Bells Lane for other reasons. With only a handful of residents along its winding two-mile stretch, the narrow pavement is a safe place to jog, bike, or walk your dog, in addition to birdwatching.
When I pulled off the main highway onto Bells Lane, I opened the moon roof and lowered the windows, and drove at a snail’s pace. The air was cool, but fresh with the scent of apple blossoms and birdsong. I smiled with great pleasure at hearing multiple birds singing, and used the popular Merlin app on my iPhone to confirm my suspicions.
Birders are happy with such technological advances that can affirm or alert you to nearby birds. However, the combination of common sense and location tempers emotions when a rare bird is indicated.
Using their amazing ability to imitate other birds, Northern Mockingbirds are notorious for setting off frenzied searches for birds that aren’t there. I almost got caught doing that this time.
In the thicket of blooming redbuds and serviceberry bushes and old-growth trees, I caught a quick glimpse of a yellow and black bird zipping through the understory. An oriole, I thought, but which one? I didn’t see it long enough to identify it.
Much later on at the summit of Bells Lane, Merlin showed a Scott’s Oriole. I had never seen one, and wondered if that’s what I saw a half hour ago. That was unlikely, since a Scott’s Oriole’s territory is the southwestern United States.
One of several Northern Mockingbirds we saw. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Then I saw it. A Northern Mockingbird sat atop a fence post, demonstrating its wide repertoire of songs. I immediately discounted the Scott’s Oriole sighting, but wondered how in the world the mockingbird knew the oriole’s song if it had never heard it.
We saw several Northern Mockingbirds as we wound our way along the bumpy road, with horse and cattle farms dominating the rolling landscape. At one stop, I could only see the top of what appeared to be a rather large house, well situated behind a wooded hillside.
Between the road and the house, birdsongs rang out as clear as day. I stood in awe and joy at being present in that moment, finally able to hear those glorious songs so well.
The underrated Field Sparrows dominated the avian chorus. Unfortunately, I couldn’t locate even one of the birds, though they had to be close to me. That’s the disadvantage of birding alone. My wife enjoyed the bird cacophony while reading in the SUV.
The low, gray clouds made photographing birds difficult.
Several times, I parked the vehicle and walked along the roadway. I met another birder who advised me that a flock of Ruby-Crowned Kinglets was foraging for insects 50 yards ahead on the left side of the road, where the underbrush thickened.
I quickened my pace, only to be stopped by the luxurious liquid sound of an Eastern Towhee. It was a male. The black hood with rusty sides and a white streak down its chest provided protective camouflage as it kicked and scratched among the dead leaves on the forest floor. I finally got a clear shot of it.
Farther up the road, I must have found a stray of the Ruby-crowned Kinglets. The lone bird flitted from limb to limb over my head, devouring insects.
Merlin showed a Pine Warbler calling, but I couldn’t find it. Pine Warblers are often among the first of their species to migrate back north after overwintering in the warmer southern states.
The young Bald Eagle on its perch. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh
As we reached the halfway point, we were at the summit of the ridge. A line of black Angus steers lumbered away from a small red barn down the pasture toward the road.
A snag of a tree stood just beyond the barn, and at the highest perch was a subadult Bald Eagle. Patches of white feathers against black revealed its age. It wasn’t a warbler, but I was thrilled to see it. The proud bird sat perfectly still, overseeing the valleys to its east and west.
Notorious for roosting in one location for hours on end, the young Eagle seemed oblivious to the cattle, the American Crows flying in the distance, and to me. I snapped away before retreating to my SUV.
The forecasted rain began to fall, gently at first and then more steadily. Our morning of birding had come to an end with perfect timing.
We headed back into town for lunch, having heard and or seen 43 bird species in a little over two hours. I anticipated warblers, but saw an eagle instead. It was an unexpected gift on our anniversary morning.
Two curious American Robins checked out the young Bald Eagle. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The daytime temperatures in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley have been above freezing for the last few days. Consequently, the melting of several inches of snow that fell three weeks ago has begun.
I ventured out in the late morning recently to do some birding. However, I ended up taking more landscape photos because the birds weren’t as active as I’d expected.
I found the topography southwest of Staunton especially captivating, with its rolling landscape, country estates along winding, narrow roads, and the snow-covered North Mountain range as a backdrop to the west. Beauty surrounded me in every direction.
In one location, a Red-tailed Hawk perched on a limb, posture focused downward in hopes of spotting an unsuspecting rabbit, squirrel, or field mouse. In another, a light-phase Red-tailed Hawk soared in the afternoon sunshine, sailing on thermals rising from the warming farm fields below.
White-throated Sparrows and Song Sparrows fed along the exposed roadside grasses and road grit, but scurried for fencerow brambles as my SUV rolled by at pedestrian speed. In the rural areas, traffic was scarce, allowing me to take my time and enjoy the scenery all around me. I stopped several times in the space of a quarter mile to inhale the fresh air, absorb the warm sunshine, and scout for any birds.
I marveled at the patterns in the diminishing snow. Polka dots of grasses surrounded by inches of snowy white speckled south-facing hillsides. Tractor tracks among corn stubble created abstract paintings. Farmsteads stood silent, as if in awe of the February thaw, painting their own Currier and Ives.
A Northern Mockingbird played hide and seek with me, playing hard to get. Darting in and out of roadside thickets, I managed a few photos of the tricky bird. American Robins launched from treelines to forage in the high grasses of pastures still dotted with snow.
Canada Geese gleaned for food in a wide-open pasture as the ice on a bordering creek gave way to the welcome warmth. I spooked a pair of Mallards enjoying pockets of open water when I stepped out of my vehicle. The geese ignored their quacking.
On the way home, I stopped at a city park along the North River where Long-tailed ducks had been reported. Instead, I found a few humans less interested in patterns in snow or waterfowl than me.
I walked across a footbridge to approach the riverside. At the other end, three seniors my age laughed and shrieked with one another, ignorant of the flock of Common Merganzers floating nearby. The birds quickly took flight.
On the way to my SUV, a trio of young boys threw sticks and pinecones at a small flock of Mallards foraging in the river’s shallows. I advised the youngsters that it’s wrong to disturb wildlife. They hung their heads until I passed by, and then continued their barrage. However, they fled when I turned around and stared at them.
Ironically, the best birds were the closest to home. The thaw substantially diminished the ice on Silver Lake, and the waterfowl basked in the afternoon sunshine. Redheads, Canvasbacks, Buffleheads, and Pied-billed Grebes swam and dove for food.
Best of all, six Tundra Swans stood on the thinning ice, preening in the sun’s warmth. It was a glorious six hours spent in communion with Nature and all her blessings.
Roadkill Crossing 
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