GREAT ESSAY ON ESTERO MORUA ADVENTURE
BY DAD OR MOM AND DAD
Most of it sounds like Dad's writing to me. However, I think
they were showing these essays to people together.
One February afternoon a squawking, crying medley of voices
attracted us to the beach in front of our house. We raced
toward the water where many hundreds of birds whirled,
soared, dived, clamored -- black, brown and white markings
contrasting with bright-colored beaks and legs. Here was
frantic activity directed at great schools of fish carried
in by the running tide. We watched the incredible number of
birds, each in its own manner, put on a show of fishing and
diving skill, a display that lasted over an hour. We counted
pelicans, terns, boobies, cormorants, grebes, gulls and
smaller birds until we gave up counting and just watched in
pure enjoyment. John Burroughs, writing about bird-watching,
commented "There is a fascination about it quite
overpowering." But after the fascination comes questions.
Where do all these birds nest?
Where do they fly each night to sleep? Which birds are true
residents and which are seasonal visitors -- or which are
just passing through? How and where do they find food when
the fishing is poor?
Like the people of the estuary,
only a handful of birds remain the year round. Most remain
for the winter season only, or visit briefly while en route
to summer or winter homes. Many, like the sandpipers, hatch
out near mountain streams in Alaska, on the shores of
Greenland, or in the tundra of Hudson Bay, and there they
will return to nest. Others stay with us all year --
homebodies like the Gambel's Quail, the Bigbilled Savannah
Sparrow, and Say's Phoebe, who nest beneath the dune shrubs
or in the eaves of beach porches. These, our daily
companions, are the birds we watch for at sunrise and
sunset. But the sea birds also beckon us daily to the
blue-green Gulf waters where the excitement of their
predatory life keeps us glued to binoculars for hours on
end.
The most striking and alluring of
these birds, the Pelicans and their many relatives such as
cormorants and boobies, are characterized by four-webbed
toes and throat pouches of varying colors, shapes and sizes.
e cart This order of birds, the peliformes, includes six
different families: 1) pelicans; 2) cormorants; 3) gannets
and boobies; 4) tropicbirds; 5) anhingas and darters; and 6)
frigate birds.
Our favorite of all these -- and
the one we almost gave up as lost forever -- is the Brown
Pelican, that half-clumsy, half-graceful, but always
fascinating sea bird. At one time we feared its extinction
with good reason. There were a few warnings in the 1950's
when the Brown Pelican's western population declined
somewhat. But by the turn of the 1960-70 decade both the
California and Baja populations seemed doomed. In 1969 and
1970 only 9 fledglings survived from 1,852 nests surveyed on
islands off the coast of southern California and
northwestern Baja. The cause, as we now know, was pollution
of their ocean environment by DDT-related discharges, mainly
from a Los Angeles manufacturer dumping liquid wastes into
the ocean. This resulted in disastrous eggshell thinning in
many species of birds including the Pelicans. Fortunately
for the Pelican ovyiat12, (and probably for fTian as well),
in 1970 the plant was forced to cease dumping its waste fnto
the ocean. It had been a close call for these large birds,
whose softened eggshells could not stand the weight of
parental care, and whose young were crushed to death before
hatching.
During this time on short winter
visits to the Gulf, we would scan the flocks with anxiety,
watching for those drab young-of-the-year among the
white-headed adults. Only seldom could we spot more than one
or two. Gradually they have come back, though not yet in
sufficient numbers for us to feel secure. Brown Pelican
productivity may still be too low for population stability
and we watch more carefully now, along with many others, for
aliim signs of environmental pollution.
But now, the pelicans are again
diving off-shore and sunning on the sand spit at low tide.
On today's walk to the estuary we witnessed a new sight.
Seventy pelicans were clustered on the near sand bar and, as
we watched, one after another threw back a head, stretched a
huge, yellow-orange throat pouch upward, beak skyward, and
turned the neck so the white plumage shone in the sun. The
head would then swing downward back to its normal position.
Each stretch seemed to call up a response from the others,
like a yawn, and one after another, sometimes three or four
together, would engage in this strange display, almost
flower-like in its colorful expansion. So far we have found
no reason for this unusual display.
Brown Pelicans, unlike their White
Pelican cousins, are skillful and adventurous divers. They
start at various altitudes, but always land with a foamy
splash; when they surface they are faced in the opposite
direction from which they entered the water. We haven't seen
any other diving birds making this sudden direction-switch
underwater. Their flying is amazingly agile and graceful for
birds of such bulk, and when they locate a school of fish,
they dip and turn in what seems to be ex-tremely close
quarters. We have yet to see them collide in mid-air as
gulls are apt to do when squabbling over a feast of fish.
Many other diving birds share the
fishing grounds and often a mixture of pelicans, boobies,
terns, cormorants and mergansers feed in a wild con-fusion
on a single large concentration of fish. Cormorants, the
next on eArk our peliform list, appear amidst the splashes
and below the aerial fishers. A Their dark heads, raised
above the water, appear at first glance to be loons, but
subsequent actions prove them otherwise. For one suddenly
rears up above the water, spreads his wings in a manner
similar to his relative the Anhinga, and immediately lifts
in flight, thus revealing himself a cormorant.
This black "cue_rvo marino" (as it
is called by the Mexicans), is often mistaken for a duck
because of its similar flight silhouette. At this time of
year there are many, forming long, dark lines against the
pale sky. Unspectacular compared to the diving birds, they
are neverthe-less such efficient fishers that they have long
been put to work for this purpose by the Chinese. Placing a
ring around the cormorant's neck to forestall swallowing,
the Chinese owner allows the tethered bird to fish, the
catch then being collected from the bird's pouch by this
enterprising human exploiter. Here, however, the cormorants
swim freely beneath the furious aerial activity and enjoy
the fruits of their own underwater fishing skill. e cl.a"
Gannets and boobies make up the
third of our peliform es list. The gannets we do not see
here -- they remain close to their northern rock clifti. But
we are fortunate to have the most beautiful of the Gulf
divers, the Brown Booby, perform for us. This spectacular
bird drops from both low and high altitudes, folding his
wings so tightly at the last minute of his flight that he
cleaves the water like an arrow. As he rises with his catch,
his sharp wings cut a clean line against the cloudless sky,
the brown and white pattern on his underside flashing in the
sun. One February day we spotted a few white-rumped
individuals among them, a feature of a different species,
the Blue-Footed Booby. Following them carefully with
glasses, we easily detected the blue beaks, but rarely could
catch the lovely blue color of the legs.
Another fascinating performance
that the Pelicans, Boobies and Terns have in common is a
"traffic circle" behavior. When a large school of fish
become the target, these divers follow a striking pattern.
They approach upwind, dive, soar upward, then circle
downwind and fall in, more or less near the end of the
group, again approaching upwind until each bird in the group
peels off when it it time to strike again. From a distance
it looks much like a busy "traffic pattern" at some modern
airport, even to the upwind approach.
Cousin to the pelicans and boobies,
the Red-Billed Tropicbird, is seldom seen close to shore. We
were fortunate to encounter one on a boat trip from our own
Puerto Penasco to Bird Island, a group of rocky peaks six
miles off shore and south of us in the Gulf. Traveling by
motorboat, mainly to fish and to view the sea lions and
porpoises, we were honored by a half hour visit by this
amazing bird who chose to playfully criss-cross our boat,
hanging about 15 feet above our heads, speeding up as we
did, racing us in the spirit of game-playing -- and proving
our boat was no match for his speed:
The anhingas and darters are not
seen in the Gulf, but occasionally we are visited by the
Magnificent Frigatebird. Once at Thanksgiving we saw several
flying along the beach.
The other diving birds in this
fishing assemblage are the terns, their specific composition
varying with the season. Today, the first of February,
hundreds of Forster's Terns have suddenly appeared over the
shallow shore. We have seen but a few before today. In their
hungry diving for shiners they are almost frenetic, their
continuous calls making a noisy, collective chatter. From
past years' experiences, we know that one morning we'll hear
a new note, a voice of Spring -- a screaming from high
above. There, streaking across the bright sky in close
formation, a pair of prosaically-named "common" Terns will
be seen cutting a sharp outline against the blue. Some will
stay for a few weeks to wheel and dive with the Forster's
Terns, adding a familiar Cape Cod dimension to the sound
medley arising from the beach surf. These, the birds Thoreau
called "Mackerel Gulls", are welcome visitors during March
and April, and then one day they are gone -- on their way to
island homes far north, perhaps to New England's coast, or
Canadian lakes.
Other terns appear, each with a
special appeal. The Elegant Tern is one of these; few
American bird watchers have seen this species although it
occasionally wanders to the coast of southern California
from its breeding grounds on islands in the Gulf. The Least
Tern, bouncing above the estuary waters in summer is a
favorite, perhaps because it's so easy to identify: its call
is swallow-like, and its yellow bill is a diagnostic delight
for the amateur. We are always on the lookout for the large
Caspian and Royal Terns; they are oddities, seeming to
lumber across the water in gull-like flight compared to
their buoyant smaller cousins. But, the most incongruous of
the group are the Black Terns, who feed here briefly in May
before leaving for in-land domesticity in Canada and
northern USA, far from marine shores. Each day during our
walks we make discoveries on the beach. Some are unpleasant,
underscoring the damage man inflicts on his fellow
creatures, often unwittingly. Today we found, at high water
mark, a dead blue-footed booby; on closer examination, the
cause of death became unhappily clear. Wound tightly around
one foot and one wing was a nylon monofilament fishing line,
one of man's lethal snares for un-suspecting wildlife. How
he had become entangled will never be known, but his death
was surely one of hopeless struggle. The finding recalled a
similar incident that occurred a few years back on Convict
Lake in California. This was a strange event, yet with a
much happier ending than today's sad find.
We had been camping at Hot Springs
Creek, but decided to visit Convict Lake because of its
reputation as an extremely beautiful and limnologic site,
and indeed it was. In fact, it was so delightful that we
decided to walk around it. As we were returning, having
nearly com-pleted the long loop, we noticed a California
gull sitting in a shallow bay, strangely motionless. Turning
glasses on the bird, we could also see a good-sized trout
close beside it. This seemed most unusual and we walked back
toward the bird who made no motion to fly. Wading into the
water toward him we discovered he had become entangled in
cfishing line -- a line to which the fish was securely
hooked.
We had with us no equipment
whatever, but by wading closer, Jerry was able to divert the
bird with one hand and grab him securely with the other.
Then, with Jerry holding him aloft -- fish, fishing line and
all -- I was ten-able to grab his feet, both of which were
tightly entangled in the line. I used the only weapon at
hand, my teeth, and broke the line in two places so I could
then unravel it and free the bird's feet. I still recall,
vividly, biting the tough line with my fac-e
-haTiburtiect—irt the -soft, white gull feather face
half-buried in the soft, white gull feathers. Once
untangled, the bird was placed back in the water and after a
few minutes of paddling his feet, he flew out toward the
middle of the lake, where he landed --either to rest or to
sooth his sore feet in the water. The sight was well worth
our entire day's visit. The fish and line we buried so no
other bird would become entangled.
After the adventure at Convict
Lake, we have looked on all gulls with affection, although
most people do not count them among their avian favorites.
The gulls evoke mixed emotions -- master fliers, they
sur-pass the most graceful] glissade, but their mores can be
questioned from an anthropocentric viewpoint. Gluttony,
thievery, murder and cannibalism all have been part of their
heritage, and these traits must have had substantial
survival value in the long history of this species. Whatever
their personality, they are part of the seasonal panorama at
the estuary, and they are as welcome as the gentler species.
Gull-watching involves spotting
beak colors, leg hues, and wing tip/mantle comparisons. The
Ring-Billed Gull is a winter resident along with the
similar, but larger and ubiquitous Herring Gull. It is the
former, however, that is our "haus Vogel", visiting us daily
for scraps and perching on nearby porch railings. The
Herring Gull, with the coldest of eyes, seems to disdain
such handouts. When we drive to Puerto Penasco, however, we
find him abundantly in the smelly dump, belying his dignity
and independence. If we happen to approach downwind, the
entire flock takes off directly toward us, swerving off to
safety the moment they are airborne. Most of these
scavengers are Herring Gulls.
In some ways the herring gull is
not such a fine bird. We knew he was a scavenger, but we did
not realize he was a bird-killer until one day, through bird
glasses, we saw three herring gulls nipping at an eared
grebe. The grebe seemed to be trapped in a very shallow
back-water quite a distance from the receding tide. He was
making valiant efforts to achieve that distance by flapping
along against a powerful wind and sinking back into the
water, too shallow for him to dive away from the gulls.
Twice while we watched a gull lifted him a foot aloft, only
to drop him when he struggled. The grebe seemed additionally
inhibited by the fact that he had been moulting and could
not get under-way against the strong wind. We broke all
sprint records in our dash to drive away the gulls, and
walked guard for the grebe until he was able to achieve the
'ocean edge and deep-water safety. He seemed not seriously
hurt, but we chalked up one more answer to why so many dead
grebes had been seen on the beach.
In Spring, the dainty Bonaparte's
Gulls join the beach crown. More tern-like than the others,
they prefer to sit on sandbars among the terns rather than
with their closer relatives. Later, during the summer
months, a few Western and California Gulls move in to
replace the Herring and Ring-Billed Bulls who have moved to
their nesting places far to the north. The Western, with his
dark back, reminds us of the fierce Great Black-Backed Gull
who is part of the rugged scenery of Mount Desert Island and
the granite seascape of the Maine coast.
The best fisherman of the gull lot
is the darkest of them all, Heerman's Gull, and he is with
us all year. Except for their bright red beaks and white
heads, they blend in with the black lava boulders upon which
they perch along the waterfront at Puerto Penasco. Here at
the beach, whenever there is a fish-bird boil, with all the
pelicani-form species, grebes and mergansers diving and
surfacing frantically, the dark silouhettes of Heerman's
Gulls are part of the tableau. Usually one or two attend a
pelican, following his every aerial maneu-ver and slanting
down with his dive, alighting close to the spot where the
large fisherman surfaces with his catch. In the British
Virgin Islands we once watched the Laughing Gulls attend
Brown Pelicans in the same manner, sitting close by
individuals that had just dived, emerged and were floating
on the bluest of Caribbean waters. This behavior on the part
of the gulls must have some advantage; perhaps the pelican
is a sloppy eater, dropping tidbits or more likely losing a
newly-caught fish. If so, the other gulls at Estero Morua
haven't learned it yet, and are missing a good thing.
Sometimes, though seldom, the
Osprey joins this diversified group of fishermen. Usually a
solitary hunter, the Osprey uses a different approach.
Hovering over his prey until the fish is close to the
surface, he then dives, plucking his catch out of the sea
with his powerful talons and carrying it to a shore perch to
enjoy at leisure. Each morning when we step out of the door
onto the warm sand we look east-ward to seekuaf our resident
"fish-hawk" is perched on his pole behind an empty beach
house. We have been watching him foraging both in the
estuary and offshore, and recognize him by the short fish
line dragging from his leg. So far, it seems to have not
affected his fishing, but we are concerned that sometime it
may tangle him up with fatal results.
There is a legend, or perhaps it
should be called a myth, that concerns these estuary
Ospreys. It may exist elsewhere, but we had not heard it
before. In several places at Estero Morua, near the beach or
high on a dune, stand slender, tall poles, each usually
topped with a curved boat hook and with a braced crossbar.
They were raised in memory of deceased friends or loved ones
in hopes that the "sea eagle" would use them as perches.
Each time the hawk returns to the pole, the tradition goes,
the soul of the departed returns with him to relive joyful
times spent here. To those who credit such fantasies of
rein-carnation, it is especially pleasurable to see the
Osprey land on one of the lofty perches. It is a reminder of
those who enjoyed the estuary before us, even though we
don't know to which individual soul each pole belongs.
Indeed, it is such a delightful myth that we hope to be so
honored by someone who lives here after us, so we can fly
back with the Osprey for brief visits.
Sometimes the poles are used by
other birds, usually as a sally point. The graceful little
American Kestrel is often perched high on a bar meant for
Ospreys, and he seems nearly acceptable as a spirit bearer.
The occasional shrike and Say's Phoebe do not make quite as
good substitutes for a sea eagle, but there was no question
-- no doubt whatsoever -- that the two Starlings we saw one
time high up on the dune pole, represented the reincarnation
of no one we wanted to know! (A son-in-law, reading the
foregoing statement, called it "continental chauvinism".)
On a sunny, windy day in February
we walked over the dunes to the estuary, not to catch fish,
crabs or oysters, but simply to bird-watch. The tide was at
the ebb with only a shallow stream making its last hurried
exit to the Gulf. But beyond the fast-flowing rivulet, in a
shallow backwater curved up against a dune, floated fifteen
ducks, paddling back and forth lazily. A familiar green
flash announced an old friend, the GreeTinged Teal. It was
the first time we had seen the species in the Gulf and we
watched their activity for nearly an hour. The green was not
obvious at first, but as one after another would rise up on
the water, flapping his wings, a white chest and under-wing
appeared; then, as they settled back onto the smooth water,
a bright jade, almost irridescent in its brilliance, would
flash briefly before the wings again folded, leaving only
slight tips of emerald still showing. By looking closely we
could make out the green eye patch on the males -- the same
lovely bright shade, but muted by the rich dark cinnamon
feathers that surrounded it.
Much more common than the teal and
the most abundant of our ducks are the wintering
Red-Breasted Mergansers. Returning from our walk that day,
we came upon a handsome male, all alone near the reefs; he
seemed undisturbed by our presence. Usually the Gulf
mergansers are gregarious, gathering in great rafts to fish,
but this one seemed to be making a solitary toilet. He was
close enough for us to admire his markings even without
glasses, but with them, every colorful detail of his
plumage, his bright red beak and eye, his red-brown and
speckled breast and white neck band, could be enjoyed at
very close view as he preened and bathed. Excellent
fishermen, these ducks have sharply serrated beaks,and any
fish they seize has little chance of slipping away. Modern
birds have no true teeth, but the notched bills of the
mergansers serve them effectively, pseudo-teeth though they
may be. Cinnamon Teal occasionally visit here and twice,
while we were hunting oysters on the outer reef, a small
dark goose, the Black Brant, went honking past us hardly
higher than our heads. This was an unusual occurnce, as we
see very few such geese. By contrast, the Surf Scoter is a
regular winter visitor. We have found several dead on the
beach and we always speculate on the cause while admiring
the bright red and white beak, much more colorful than shown
in our guide book. A round, black spot centered in the white
base of the bill gives the appearance of a large eye,
bringing to mind the deceptive "eye" near the tail on many
of the brilliant fish we have seen on tropical reefs. The
Surf Scoter's real eye is small, set farther back and nearly
hidden beneath the white marking on the forehead.
Two other elegant, graceful and
familiar birds, the Great Blue Heron and the Snowy Egret,
frequent the estuary and the off-shore reefs These birds
exhibit distinct differences in their feeding habits; the
Egret is a busy hunter, cruising back and forth through the
shallows, constantly on the move; the larger Great Blue
Heron stands motionless, tensely poised, waiting for long
moments before a lightning-fast strike secures his prey.
Both are strikingly beautiful to watch, but nothing can
equal the flowing ease of the Great Blue Heron as he slows
to land, daintily setting his feet onto the sand, his lovely
slate-blue wings gleaming a moment in the sun before he
folds their color into the familiar grey-blue profile.
In the Gulf the loneliness of the
Great Blue Heron contrasts sharply with their behavior in
their nesting habitat. Lake Itasca, Minnesota, was one of
these places where three or four herons could usually be
spotted along the shoreline. During a summer stay at that
lake, we discovered a busy rookery in a nearby grove of red
pines where dozens of pairs resided. Although they ranged
far to supply their nestlings, some always were hunting the
Itasca shores. A unique feature of these Minnesota herons
was their habit of landing on the water to float like
long-necked ducks. Our boys were young then and when fishing
from canoe or boat, they would throw unwanted perch high in
the air whenever the herons passed. This would bring the
great birds down to float buoy-antly while picking up the
fish. Then with one stroke of their wings they were airborne
and gaining altitude as they flew home to the rookery. This
was decidedly different behavior than the herons we watched
in the estuary.
Equally at home floating in the
estuary or fishing in a rough sea, the Eared Grebe is a
winter and spring visitor. We have come upon these
unsophisticated little divers foraging in the tide pools,
aware of our presence but showing no fear, apparently
unaware of the dangers associated with mankind. By mid March
their delicate golden "ears" (plain and unadorned in the
winter months), presage spring and the onset of warm
weather. The golden feathers, fluffing out in the spring
breeze on each side of the grebe's small head, reflect the
sun, and one instantly knows why they are called "eared"
grebes. Though strictly western birds, this year one
surprised the experts by turning up in a Christmas bird
count from the New York side of Lake Champlain -- an
unprecedented appearance. The American Oyster Catcher, a
louder, brighter, estuary inhabitant, is usually seen
whenever we walk to the oyster reefs to pry off the tilt,
delicious rock oysters for an evening meal. These birds
herald their approach with shrill, short cries, and they
continue to shriek as they pass, their red beaks bright and
distinctive. They seldom mingle with other species but stay
aloof in groups of two or, rarely, three. We see evidence of
their feeding at low tide; since many freshly-opened and
cleanly-picked shells remain to bleach in the sun, we assume
the birds are eating well.
The Turnstones, both Ruddy and
Black, also find much to their liking in and around the
oyster beds. Their characteristic foraging behavior of
flipping stones to search for invertebrate tidbits is fun to
watch. One day we chanced upon one of these birds who had an
un-welcome hunting companion -- a fast-moving sanderling.
The sanderling stood close by waiting until the turnstone
tossed aside a small stone; then he rushed in searching for
whatever prey might be uncovered; this seemed to confuse the
busy turnstone. Apparently that bird, at least, had not
experienced this type of looting before. More often,
sanderlings are found in small flocks on the beach, alone or
in company with a variety of other species, relying on no
one else for their dinner; with shallow probes, too rapid to
count, they seem to be sucking up nourish-ment unavailable
to other shore birds. We have never witnessed another
incident of a sanderling relying upon the skills of a
turnstone for his food.
All the shore feeders have a place
and a time to hunt and, thanks to the pull of sun and moon,
the tidal regime/offers varied opportunities. The sandpipers
skitter along in the shallows or wade deeper according to
species. The plovers, on the other hand, seem to be almost
afraid to wet their feet. The largest and most common plover
on our beach is the Black-Bellied Plover whose hunting
tactics remind one of a robin on a suburban lawn -- it runs
a few steps, stops, seems to listen, and suddenly plunges
its beak into the burrow of an unfor-tunate sandworm.
Recently a graduate student at Yale, armed with stopwatch
and notebook, showed that the steps between successive
plover probes mean something: if the bird has good luck, he
takes fewer steps before trying again. The Black-Bellied
Plover knows in some ancestral, selected-for behavioral way
that "clumping" is a common pattern of distribution among
animals, including his prey.
Other smaller plovers are less
common here. The Semipalmated Plover, striped like a little
Killdeer, seems to be a successful and widespread bird,
co-occurring with the others on our beaches. It is found on
the East Coast also, and on the sands of Cape Co it coexists
with the noisy Piping Plover, a counterpart of our western
Snowy Plover. The middle-sized Wilson's Plover isn't part of
the assemblage of other shorebirds on the beaches. Far less
sociable than other plovers, one or two occasionally visit
the tidal mud flats in the estuary. These birds display a
different pace from their relatives. Almost cat-like, they
stalk their prey; creeping closer and closer with head
lowered, they conclude with a last-minute dash for the
quarry. With such a foraging technique, they can ill afford
to hunt where other beach combers, running here and there,
might alarm their victim. Commonest of all the estuary
sandpipers, the Willet is also one of the most nondescript,
drab and undistinguished of shorebirds when seen feeding in
the shallow wake of receding tides. But he exemplifies
perfectly what Henry Beston meant when he wrote, "No one
really knows a bird until he has seen it in flight." With
its singularly striking black and white pattern, the airborn
Willet is a joy to watch. Once seen in flight, it can't be
forgotten.
In addition to distinctive beak
shape, leg color and flight pattern, a sandpiper can be
identified by its mode of feeding. If you see a lone bird
unhurriedly probing the mud flats high above the receding
tide, you may guess it's a Long-Billed Curlew. The sure
identification, of course, is the Curlew's long, curved beak
-- which contrasts to the straighter, shorter beak of the
Marbled Godwit -- a bird more apt to wade out from the
water's edge as the tide rises. The Willet's feeding pattern
is apt to fall somewhere in between these two. The Greater
Yellowlegs, on the other hand, lurches and splashes in a
drunken manner, chasing and seizing the prey it scares up. A
bird that runs along the water's edge at high tide, probing
rapidly in what appears to be sterile sand, is usually the
Sanderling, the largest of the "sand peeps".
Parenthetically, it seems wrong that the turnstones have the
generic name, Arenaria; it obviously belongs to the
Sanderling.
The Dunlin, Knot, Dowitcher,
Surfbird, Wandering Tattler, and the two smallest peeps, the
Western and Least Sandpipers -- all display a confusing
array of somber hues, but each is beautiful in his own way,
occupying his own niche in the beach economy.
In their distinctive, indivival
ways of living the sandpipers remind us of human behavior.
In this we again agree with Beston who called his outer Cape
sandpipers, "...the thin-footed, light-winged "peoples" ...
the busy pickup, runabout, and scurry-along "folk". The
peeps, in particular, remind one of a little person running
on the beach, now pausing to scan the field, then suddenly
changing his mind and racing for the ocean at full speed.
"Life no longer than a sand peep's
cry...", wrote Edna St. Vincent Millay, lamenting her years
spent away from the Maine coast. And we are reminded again,
how brief are the moments we are able to spend on the beach,
close to the ocean with our bird relatives who share this
planet.
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