Miscellaneous Writings |
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The Falcon
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So much of the time we recount our pleasure of a birding trip by the
quantity of the day list. I certainly pursue that acquisitive pleasure when I’m in a
good area, and when I actually know the birds well enough to compile a decent list. But
yesterday morning reminded me of why I bird. I’m alone on the mud, at Leadbetter Point, early morning, high tide. Those masses of shorebirds that I’d been craving to see have arrived. Distant smudges of shorebirds drift across the horizon, as well as plump, ragged lines of hundreds of Brant. Now, on this shore, all around me, is the frantic peeping of several hundred Westerns. I stand still, they come closer, it seems I’m just another stranded log to them. The spotting scope, redundant. It is one of those rare occasions when I feel completely in this spot, in this moment, enthralled with the life of birds about me. And then I see the Peregrine, like a rocket, treetop level, headed my way. Every bunch of birds lifts from the beach in turn, like a zipper pulling open, north to south. The birds before me lift in a single instant and vanish, and the mud is suddenly empty. The chatter of the flock is gone, replaced by the soft murmur of wind. |
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