Birders caught in a quandry about the identity of the long-tailed (or are they pin-tailed?) ducks paddling and diving along the inlet at Old Barney’s feet.
(A good enough reason for me to continue calling them oldsquaw… politically incorrect or no…)
The oddly painted costume of the harlequin duck is distinct and well worth the hours long drive to see them.
Random teeterings and dawdlings of dunlin, turnstone and purple sandpiper.
Tears that come at the memory of another visit here, a lifetime ago. I turn around confounded by the wall of wind… heedless of how fast and far I’ve come.
I try to imagine this place in summer, as most would know it… waves glitter a thousand small suns, the long rhythm of the surf, a herring gull’s call like a rusty pulley, the clatter and crunch of periwinkles, scallops and skate egg casings, the sight of a black skimmer slitting the seam between two worlds.
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See any good birds yourself this weekend?
Oh… and I ran into Beth out ogling the harlequins! Small world…