At Oyster Bay, all was soft, cushiony, silent. White and grey and dark, moody greens.
|Now what? The beach is that-away, over the logs and down the slope. There's a winding trail, but where?|
|There! Some helpful person had stomped his way through the snow, found the gaps in the logs, and left a clear path, just wide enough for my boots. Thank you, whoever it was!|
|And out on the water, one lonely female bufflehead bounced up and down on the waves.|
|Snowflakes on a beached log, below the snow line. Looks sort of like a flaky, frozen, otter.|
I walked almost to the point, seeing no birds but a distant gull, returned to check out the other half of the park, the nature reserve.
|The trail maker had been here, too. But earlier; the path is snowed under.|
|Rose hips with hats.|
|And an eagle in a distant tree.|
And I went back to the parking lot, stamped the snow off my boots and legs, shook it off my back and hood, cranked up the car heater, and dripped all the way home, counting eagles; another eight.
It's eagle weather. The rest of the birds are laying low.
It has stopped snowing, but more is on the way, they say, and then freezing rain, just to make driving a bit more of an adventure.