At My Window
The rhythms of nature are always a source of wonder. Crocus bulbs come up at the same time every year, give or take a few days, and they flower with the same predictability, year after year.
Above are two photos of our pond-side garden, taken almost three years apart, almost to the day. The 2012 scene was recorded after a light, first snow. The 2009 photo was taken after several snowstorms in a row had piled the white stuff pretty high. (The little bird bath is there; the snow mound marks its spot.) Yet the close dates remain a mystery to me. Are they mere coincidence, or are the rhythms of nature here again at work?
You’ll notice that two trees visible at the water’s edge in the earlier photo, have disappeared in the later one. The large tree on the left, a Box Elder, grew topsy-turvy over the years until it outgrew its roots, and blew over during Tropical Storm Irene. The smaller one was struggling, so we cut it down. The Red-twigged Dogwood bush, in the middle, has grown big, though we keep it trimmed.
The stems with the little balls on top are what’s left of summer’s Coneflowers. I purposely leave them standing, as each winter they make a beautiful, and distinctly new composition against the snow.
Each of these views of our Winter Garden has its own appeal. One is delicate, with a sense of repose; the other is assertive, with visual impact. Do you have a preference? If so, please feel free to share your thoughts in the comment box.
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It flew in from the north swiftly, through the trees, pitching and rolling ever so slightly as if feeling its way through the tangle, alighting finally atop an old willow, high above my head.
It was 7:00 in the morning, and the outdoor thermometer read 18°F. I was hauling out the trash, a chore I usually do the night before, but with Monday a holiday, I had got my days mixed up.
The sun had not yet topped the hill on the eastern side of the pond, and the predawn light was gray. Yet, peering up, I could clearly make out the white head and neck, the latter extended, no doubt for a clear view of the opposite shore.
My presence did not seem to be an issue. After several minutes of looking about, the great bird took off in a cloud of falling twigs, heading east across the pond. For a heavy bird flying in cold, lifeless air, this was labored flight, not the graceful soaring on high-altitude thermals for which it is famous.
Could I have muffed the identification? The light was poor and the bird high up in the tree. I confess, I didn’t get a good look at the wing shape or underwing color because it was flying low. Nor did I see the fluffy neck feathers as the neck was extended. What else could it have been, though, but an adult Bald Eagle, a bird of great size, with white head and neck, and gray-brown plumage? A friend tells me that she saw a Bald Eagle over the pond a few years ago, so there’s a precedent. If only I had taken my camera outside with me…if only. Still, I have the memory: I’ll never forget the thrill of that sudden, unexpected recognition.
Do you have an interesting wildlife story? Please feel free to share it in the comment box.
Low clouds filtered the bright, December moonlight, spreading it over the water faintly, imparting a surreal quality to the scene.
It was late and I didn’t want to fuss with the tripod, so I braced the camera against the open window’s frame for what I knew would be a long exposure. Gratifyingly, the camera held steady.
Usually, the camera’s sensor won’t tolerate a long exposure of a moon against a dark sky. It produces a halo around the moon. In this case the clouds had already formed a halo, so the sensor acquiesced.
This photo is best viewed in dim light. The subtle points and strokes of light abstract a rental community sited on a hill across the pond. Photo shot December 12, 2011 at 7:04 pm.
You don’t read much about them. They don’t make the headlines. They don’t run for public office, or get caught in financial scandals. Perhaps we humans take them for granted because they’re so familiar. Of course, I’m talking about the Mallard duck, a true cosmopolitan, spectacularly successful in sharing habitats with human beings around the world. It can be found in diverse watery spots, from urban parks to tundra ponds.
The Mallard is the largest of the dabbling ducks. Dabblers don’t dive for food; they up-end in shallow water to reach organic stuff on the bottom, as the photos show.
They’re normally placid creatures, yet after dark when they gather on the pond in a great, round, dense formation, there can be quacking aplenty, and it can go on for hours. What causes the discord? Males competing for females? Or for a place in the pecking order? Or is this a “town meeting” for the airing of grievances?
The male is handsomely turned out in formal plumage during mating season (Oct-May), ready for dining at the most upscale suburban park. The female, of course, stays discretely dressed for sitting unnoticed on her nest.
Mallards winter over in the lower forty-eight, then fly north in the spring to breed in a few northern states and much of Canada. They pair during mating season only; the female raises the ducklings alone. Like most ducks, Mallards are highly social in the nonbreeding season.
According to my bird book, ducks in the wild live only a few years, but among the oldest ducks on record was a Mallard that reached the grand old age of twenty-six.
For more reading, go to: Wikpedia » Mallard.
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December is the month for the most spectcular sunrises, as I’ve noted. Why have I called this one “Ducks’ Dawn”? It’s due, in part, to the large number and variety of ducks on the pond for this time of year, which include four score of the familiar mallards, and eighteen or so of the magnificent common mergansers — all busy swimming or flying from one watery destination on the pond to another. Early this morning, I also saw what I thought was an American coot near the shore, but it was still too dark for photographs.
What’s more, during this shoot, I happened to capture a group of mallards in flight. You can see them in the fourth frame. I had a bit of luck there, of course, but as Louis Pasteur so famously said, “In the fields of observation chance favors only the prepared mind.”
I debated whether to post all of these photos — which I had winnowed from the original seventy-
two — or just the one “best.” They’re all so beautiful, I couldn’t decide, and took the easy way out.
As I’ve noted before, such celestial events are usually short-lived. This one lasted less than fifteen minutes. The changes in light and color during that brief period were subtle, but engrossing. I urge you to view one or more of the scenes full-screen; just click on a photo to enlarge it. The sequence was recorded on December 27, 2011, the day of this post.
I’d like to take this opportunity to wish you happiness and good health in the coming New Year, as well as a big belly-laugh every now and then.
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I could just make them out in the pre-dawn gloom. They were huddled against the bitter cold, heat from their bodies apparently keeping the circular pool open. Frankly, I didn’t expect to see them. I thought they’d all have left for warmer climes at the first sign of ice. However, these mallards seemed determined to tough it out. Maybe they know something we don’t: that this is going to be a warmer winter than usual.
As the sun rose, most of them climbed out onto the thin ice, forming a ceremonial ring around the pool, the better to catch the faintly warming rays. Later, they were joined by a few copycat geese, and the scene became more tangled, Brueghel-like.
There was a surreal quality about the day — topped off when a line of gulls began to glow, lit by the low, slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. The date was December 19, 2011.
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