On approaching birds on the beach

Killdeers are worrywarts.

There's no need; I never see them until they rise up in a panic and fly away, peeping frantically.

Gulls are calm (about people, not about food found by rival gulls), and think about my approach for a while before they decide to leave.

"Is it worth the effort to give up my nice, cosy rock?"

Mallards, off-shore, are impervious.

A peaceful afternoon paddle with the neighbours. Life is good.

Worrywarts

Killdeer always look worried. Even in winter, when there are no nests to protect. Even on beaches loaded with goodies to eat. Even when that horrible photographer is keeping her distance and not moving.

One killdeer, Oyster Bay

Two killdeer.

Peet!

Laurie was an artist and a collector; he lived surrounded by books (over 4000), music, Japanese porcelain, Chinese jade, his own paintings and wood carvings. (Of which more, later.) And he left me with the task of distributing it all after he was gone, some to friends and family, other items to charity. It's kept me busy this whole month, kept me from moping, maybe.

I finished the last of the immediate tasks this morning, and let the car take me where it wanted to go, since nothing and nowhere appealed to me. I found myself after a while pulling into our old parking spot in Beach Grove, by the boat ramp. And the tide was high, the wind cold, and the beach deserted; just the setting for a melancholy trudge along the rocks.

There is healing in the eternal wash of waves on stones, each one subsiding with a whisper, leaving space for the one behind. And the next, and the next, and the next; never stopping to let you hold the moment, indulge your mood. Life goes on, with enthusiasm.

Five herons flew overhead, in a straight line and a hurry. Snails rested on rocks, catching the last bit of sunshine before the water swallowed them again. A couple of men arrived with their kites, blue and yellow. I sat on a log to watch them and idly poked at the dried eelgrass at my feet; beach hoppers scattered in all directions, like popcorn on a hot stove.

Life goes on.

I walked back across the dunes, looking at new growth; large-headed sedge, Scotch broom, beach peas, sea rocket just starting to bloom, purple dead-nettle; the bees and butterflies will be busy this spring. And something called out, loudly, "Peet! Peet!"

Do you see it?

Zooming 'way in. She looks worried.

A killdeer. Her nest is probably somewhere in the middle of the beach pea patch; she led me on a merry chase all around the outskirts, never getting too far away, but never leading me towards the centre. Every few minutes she would call again, keeping my attention on her, not on a possible nest. I was hoping for the broken wing act, but she didn't think it was necessary.

Eventually, she led me to the road off the beach, decided that was far enough away from home, and flew back.

She's a bit more visible with the wings spread.

Life goes on. And so will I. But I wish Laurie had been with me to see the killdeer.

Killdeer and a roll of eelgrass

Even at high tide, the beach always holds surprises for us. On the narrow strip of rocks between the railway and the waves at Semiahmoo yesterday, we tracked three killdeer. They hid almost at our feet, invisible against the piles of rotting eelgrass, then broke cover with a worried, "Peep!" and flew a few feet away to melt into the background again. And again. Eventually, our eyes adjusted. And before they finally flew away, they allowed us to get some photos.

"Peep!" he said. A worry call.

I wanted a couple of things from the beach; some fresh sea lettuce for my aquarium critters, and a fair-sized kelp holdfast, just to see what it might contain. Each kind of seaweed harbours different organisms, and the holdfast, attached to the sea floor below the intertidal level, would probably be home to critters we don't usually see, even at really low tides.

Laurie untangled a few for me from a new eel-grass and kelp roll. He had to get out his knife to cut through the stipe on the largest. I bagged them up and brought them home.

And they were full of goodies! It has taken all afternoon and evening to sort through everything. I'll have the first of the photos tomorrow.

Do Not Disturb

The wasteland across the street beckons us these days.

For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; ... (Song of Solomon 2:11, 12)

(There are no turtles on the vacant lot, and old Solomon probably meant turtledoves, anyhow. And turtles hiss like snakes. But you get the picture.)

We went over yesterday afternoon to see what is new this week. It's bunny rabbits, young ones!

First bunny, with tangled fencing. As good as blackberry canes for keeping the hawks at bay.

Second bunny, pretending to be another rock. A rock with pink ears.

Following that second rabbit, we got too close to the area where the killdeers have their nest. One of them called out.

"Peet!"

"Follow me!"

We back-tracked, watching our step so as not to disturb a nest. But it seems that our path brought us closer to their hiding place; one of the birds came almost to our feet to do the distress dance.

Fantail. And look at the curve in that wing!

Eyes in the back of her head. Good parenting trait.

"Are you watching?"

Flashing those petticoats!

(She reminds me of the swinging skirts of the Jarabe Tapatío, the Mexican Hat dance.)

We slipped away quietly. Across the field, I heard one last "Peet!" And then silence.

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Why do we call it "vacant"?

It had been a stay at home and catch up on chores day, so after supper, Laurie suggested a walk across the street to the vacant lot.

The lot is a block wide, maybe two blocks long, and divided in two sections: half has been abandoned ever since I first saw it, a good five years ago; the other half serves as a gravel and construction materials dump, and gets more or less levelled every year. The first half is turning itself into swamp and young alder forest.

As we neared the edge of the gravelly half, a few steps before the trees start, a killdeer called, off to our right.

Killdeer, almost hidden in the weeds and dirt.

Looking worried.

We followed it, trying to get a clear photograph; standing still, it disappeared into the background, but never for long; a moment later, it would call, flash that white neck at us, and run again. After a bit, its mate joined it, beckoning us on, even treating us to the broken wing pantomime:

"I'm injured! Come and catch me!"

We weren't fooled; we gave up the chase and went back where we first saw them to look for the nest, a mere scrape in the dirt, out in the open. We didn't find it. One of the birds flew over our head, panicked and crying, so we backed off and left them alone.

Killdeer running over old rocks and construction leftovers.

All the vegetation on this half had been torn up last winter and buried under fresh hills of gravel and piles of broken concrete. People have been using the site as a dump for old carpets and lumber. But nature can't be beaten; new growth is springing up everywhere.

Buttercups

Red grasses, swaying in the wind.

Tiny yellow flowers, with purple leaves.

Mushrooms. This one looks like one of those Mexican breads, pan de dulce. Or a lemon meringue pie. Yum! A slug has been nibbling at it.

Horsetails, just starting out. They will cover this hillside in next to no time.

And we found another bird:

Smiling duck.

Daisies are about to bloom, thistles are growing apace, so are grasses and plantains, dandelions and the first of the tiny pink vetches. As we left to come home, I gathered a handful of broom to brighten my table.


After I'd put it in a vase, small critters started dropping out, and walking across the table. Tiny things, just walking dots. I caught a bunch with a paintbrush and examined them; they're leafhopper nymphs, barely two millimetres long.

Leafhopper nymphs.

The leafhoppers have been disposed of. Now there is a tiny spider in the bouquet, looking for them. Sorry, spidey; I've emptied your larder.

All in all, the perfect ending to the day. (The spider may not agree.)

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