BREAKFAST WITH A WIGGLE

Here's something you don't see every morning—a great blue heron catching, killing, and eating a fairly long snake for breakfast. Well, maybe I ought to say I think the snake was dead before the heron gulped it down—but since there's generally a lot of wiggle remaining in a recently deceased snake, it's only a humanitarian presumption. 

A few whacks on the rocks below the water willows…

Anyway, that's exactly what I saw yesterday morning when I stepped outside with the dog. The big bird was on the weedy gravel bar across from the cottage. This long islet is currently dry and—if you're a heron—knee-deep in water willow. 

As I watched the long-legged bird wade cautiously through the stalks, it suddenly paused, alert, then quickly bent and shot its long beak into the dense vegetation. A moment later it reared up with its writhing prize—what looks to me to be about an 18-inch northern water snake. 

…a quick gulp, and gulp, and gulp again…

Naturally, the snared snake was rather upset by this unexpected turn of events, and began lashing about for all it was worth. In turn, the heron would slam it down onto the bar's stoney deck. Eventually the blows took their toll. The wild lashing became mild wiggling…and without further fuss, the heron simply tossed it back and down—and with one big gulp the snake disappeared, though you could see a lumpy bulge in the back of the heron's throat for a few moments. 

Yeah, that kinda grossed me a bit, too—and I'm fairly ungrossable. Or maybe it was simply because I'd not yet had my morning coffee. 

…and it's time to go looking for a second helping.

Frankly, I'm still not sure whether I feel most sorry for the poor serpent who got ate, or the poor bird who did the eating. I am glad the victim wasn't one of my queen snakes.  

After that, ol' blue simply gave a settling shake of his feathers, and began stalking anew, looking for whatever else he might find to skewer and consume. Who says a canny heron needs water to hunt?

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HERON NEAR-OOPS!

Most of the time the numerous great blue herons, which daily frequent the shallows of pool edges and riffles near the cottage, are highly intolerant of company. Just open the door leading to the side deck and they'll be flapping off in alarm, squawking in disgust with every wingbeat. 

Making a good photo is pretty much a matter of luck and quick shooting.

But every once in a while a bird will surprise you. Yesterday evening, midways between twilight and full dark, as the sky dimmed and a few stars began winking on through the skim of clouds, the heron above came winging up from downstream. The big bird landed on the edge of the pool directly across from where I stood—smack in the open, as hulking and highly visible as a bear in church, my canine sidekick Moon-the-Dog alongside, who, being mostly white, glowed like a neon phantom in the dusk. After eyeing me warily for several minutes, the heron waded carefully out to the middle of the riffle to a favorite fishing-platform rock. 

I made a few cautious photos. Sometimes, as if responding to the sound of the shutter, the heron would pause and spend a few moments speculatively rechecking us out. Still, while it was certainly aware of our presence, it didn't seem particularly anxious.

What was causing the heron problems was the slippery stone. We haven't had much rain this spring to keep things scoured clean. The river is low and the riffle's rocks are slick, making footing precarious and problematic for all us fishermen, feathered or not. More than once the big bird's foot slipped on the slimy stone, causing it to flap desperately in order to regain balance and not wash over into the four-foot depths directly downstream. That's what's happening in the image above.

After making a few additional shots, I decided to remove Moon and myself from the scene as possible distractions, in case we were more contributory than I thought. I know if I'm destined to take a pratfall, I'd rather do it without an audience, let alone what amounts to riverside paparazzi.     

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CLOUDY MORING WITH HERON

It's cloudy this morning, the risen sun muted behind a heavy overcast thick as an old wool sock. The river is dark in the dim, flat light, not green but something of a tarnished gray, like old pewter that's badly in need of a polishing. 

We're supposed to get rain starting early this evening and more rain over the next few days. Not particularly cold, though—the highs for today and tomorrow in the mid-60s˚F, the 50s on Tuesday, and still only down in the mid-40s Wednesday and Thursday, at which point the sun is predicted to reappear. Not bad for the middle of November in Ohio; I remember plenty of years when we'd already had a snow or two by this point on the calendar—some years a substantial snow.

If I've learned anything about weather over the years, it's that you'd best accept what you have and try not to grumble because it can always get worse.

I've been watching a great blue heron fishing in a riffle below the cottage. So far it has taken three small fish—minnows, really—plus a fourth about the size of my opened palm. This latter fish took some maneuvering to get properly placed in the mouth, head pointed down the gullet, before being subsequently swallowed. Prior to starting the procedure, the big bird waded to the very edge of the rocky shallows, I presume as a safety measure should his hard-won catch get accidentally dropped.

After eating the largest fish, the heron hopped up onto a large log that's down along the edge of the shallows. It's behavior I've noticed often—following a more substantial meal, a heron will often take a rest a bit away from the water. Sometimes this is on a handy log or rock, or they amble a dozen feet up the bank into the edge of the woods on the island; at other times they might choose a low overhanging limb, or occasionally, a limb that's 30-40 feet above the ground. 

I know the feeling—more than once I've sidled lethargically away from a supper table after consuming an overly hearty meal, found a comfortable seat nearby, and spent some time in pleasurable discomfort contemplating this latest overindulgence. That old heron and I share more in common than just a love for rivers and fishing….

———————    

      

HERON IN THE RAIN

It's raining here today—heavily at times. Tuesday's jade-green river is now brown and already a foot higher than it was yesterday. It will doubtless continue to rise throughout the day and night. 

According to the weatherman, the rest of the week and the weekend will see more of the same. I've decided this calls for a big pot of chicken and vegetable soup, and plan to settle in and relax for the duration. With the cooler temps, I'm thinking Myladylove and I can have a hearthfire this evening.

Frankly, I'm good with the above scenario…or at least until the grub runs low, my supply of mysteries from the library need exchanging, and the lack of outdoor time starts threatening to give me a case of the heebie-jeebies. But the great blue heron who usually hangs around the Cottage Pool is bummed. When I looked out the window a few minutes ago, the big bird had sought a perch on the stump-end of a bankside log, back in the edge of the island's woods and some distance from the water. In the dim light he looked waterlogged and out-of-sorts, like any sustenance angler, underwhelmed by the prospects of having to fish the higher, muddy water for his supper.

I suppose I could offer to share my soup…

———————

PERCHING HERON

It is late, almost six o'clock on a cloudy winter's day. The light is noticeably fading, heading towards dusk which always comes early here in this hill-cupped valley, where the river cuts its slate-blue path and sycamores lean thoughtfully over restless water.

For the past half hour—long enough to eat a bowl of vegetable soup and drink most of a mug of coffee—I've been sitting in the main room, beside the cold hearth, watching the riffle and pool in front of the cottage and the woods on the island beyond. There are a dozen Canada geese cruising along the bank where the water is still. Big birds in formal-looking  black and white and gray attire. Every so often, amid much flapping of wings, they take to honking at one another, like disgruntled drivers caught in a traffic jam.

Just as I'm finishing my drink, a great blue heron comes sailing downstream, twenty feet above the river, and makes a hard right turn at the pool to sweep into island's thick timber. I see the big bird flap once, twice, then angle its glide-path up slightly to land atop a horizontal sycamore limb, exhibiting more lightness and grace than you'd think possible in such a gangly creature. 

Until I moved to this riverside cottage, I had no idea great blue herons spent so much time in trees. I'd visited heron rookeries during nesting time, and watched the great birds come winging into their high nests. Yet other than that, I'm not sure I'd ever noticed a heron in a tree as I wade-fished or float-tripped my way along countless streams. And believe me, I've spent far more time on the water than most folks—even serious angler-types. Now I've come to learn that herons sit in trees every day, sometimes for an hour or more at a stretch; they tree-perch throughout the year, through all seasons and weather; and they sit at all heights above the ground, not necessarily over the water—anywhere from 20 to 100 feet high.

I find this behavior puzzling. Are they simply resting? Taking a time-out for digestion? I have no idea. The herons don't appear to be watching anything, and they're certainly not keeping an eye the river and potential fishing holes. In fact, often when they perch in view of the stream, they sit with their backs to the water. So for now, I'll just chalk it up to up one more nature mystery, part of the growing list of things I don't know. 

But a good excuse to refill my mug and sit a tad longer…

———————

  

GOOD FISHING!

You wouldn't have thought today would have been a good day for fishing—not with the air temperature below freezing and snow falling during much of the afternoon. But some of us are more fair-weather fisherman than others, I guess, or at least aren't quite so compelled to either catch our meal or starve.

Consider this as you will. I can assure you there's at least one great blue heron in southwest-Ohio who won't be going to the roost hungry…not tonight, anyway.

During a period of a couple of hours, I watched the stately feathered fisherman in the photos nail five fish. Most weren't nearly as large as the one (a shad, I think) in the pictures—but neither were they mere minnows. I don't know what that individual bird's fish tally was for the day, or how even a big a bird could eat so much.

There were three other herons working the stretch of river I could see from my window view, either standing along the edge of the water or ensconced in one of several riffles below the cottage. I have no idea whether their fishing success equaled that of the bird I kept the closer watch on and photographed. But judging from what I've learned of heron behavior, if a buddy was getting fish regularly and they weren't, I'd expect an ongoing series of equity squabbles. Today, for once, everybody stayed in place and minded their own business, so I presume fishing luck was good all around.

Of course all fisherman—feathered or otherwise—are a bit secretive when it comes to their favorite fishing holes. When the heron in the photos captured a smaller fish, the catch was quickly swallowed. But when the fish was larger, the sneaky bird would fly into the island's woods, away from the prying eyes of his competitors, where he could take his time getting things arranged and consumed. And believe me, a fish such as the one in the photos is no easy meal for a heron to down.

The fish must be positioned just right in the beak, turned until it points headfirst into the bird's mouth. That way, sharp dorsal spines don't lodge in the upper palate, and side-fin spines won't catch in the throat. The fish is then lifted as the bird's head is thrown back, allowing a straight shot down the old gullet. With a mostly-dead, heavy, and sorta limp fish, this is no easy task—it requires balance, patience, experience, and luck. I've watched a hereon spend more than an hour trying to make all the elements come together at the same moment—flipping the fish up and back again, and again, and again…until finally the process worked. Sometimes a bird gets so tired before it manages this that it has to take a rest, then come back for round two. And once the fish is in the back of the throat and starting down, it can still require all sorts of head shakings, neck undulations, and overall stretchings to do the trick. The whole business looks painful.

Through binoculars I watched the bird swallow the fish. I couldn't get a photo, though—sorry.

The task went fairly smoothly, and the heron got the meal down in less than a quarter-hour. Then it flew back to the same place and began patiently watching the edge of the river…and five minutes later, caught another—smaller—fish. Yeah, I'm thinking glutton.

I did mention it was a good day for fishing—right?

——————

FROSTBITE FISHERMAN

When I looked out at the river a few minutes ago, I saw the great blue heron standing on a rock in the riffle directly in front of the cottage. Since there seemed to be some amazement with yesterday's post regarding the fact that herons hang along the river all winter long—regardless of snow and cold and ice—I thought I'd make a few quick photos and give a you better look. The sky is cloudy, the sun is down (I think) behind the western hills, and the light is going fast. I had to turn up the ISO to 800 in order to be sure of a fairly sharp image. They turned out well, I think, considering.

Hope you get a kick seeing one of my favorite feathered frostbit fishermen…

Any fisherman knows, you have to be patient…

…except that sometimes, the water looks better in this direction.

There…all set…bring on the fish!

Here…fishy, fishy, fishy…

Winter fishing ain't all it's quacked up be… so who invited the ducks!

SHOOTING THE HERON

This has been one of those days…cool, cloudy, and by necessity, mostly given to work. In fact, I've been stuck at my desk since breakfast…which, come to think of it, I ate at my desk about 6:45 this morning. Lunch, too, when that time rolled around.

Working from home can be as tyrannical sometimes as having a real job at a real workplace—except you can dress sloppier. The nuthatches, goldfinches, titmice, and chickadees who've been steadily cleaning out the seed feeder near the study window, simply don't care how you look so long as you keep the grub coming. And the UPS guy can always use a chuckle.

Of course, when I say I've been at the desk "all day," I don't literally mean every single moment. Being your own supervisor has it's perks. One is the right to bolt up the hall every so often for an apple or a cup of tea. Or to the front room to annoy Moon the dog by awakening her from her latest nap with a lob of one of her plush toys onto her upturned belly. Gotcha!

My hands-down favorite time waster, though, is gazing out the deskside window—watching birds and squirrels, and the 200 yard slice of river visible just beyond. You never know what you'll see on or along the water. Today it was a great blue heron.

Heron are common here, along my "home water" because it's a good stretch for them to do their fishing. Seldom a day passes that I don't see at least one great blue wading stealthy along, hunched, leaning forward a bit, intent on the water ahead. Or alternately, they might elect to simply stand on a rock or in the shallows, as immobile as a driftwood stump, a lurking shadow waiting patiently for their next meal to swim to within striking distance.

I've spent a lot of time watching heron fish.

Today, I got into playing a game of hide-and-seek with a particular great blue heron who insisted on tempting me from my work by parading rather close to the cottage. A good photo opportunity, providing I could out-sneak the sharp-eyed and watchful angler.

I also spend a lot of time trying to sneak within telephoto distance (60 feet or less) of fishing heron. I understand that in some places, great blues will tolerate such distances without alarm; some, in fact, are almost tame, to the point where you can practically walk up and get a good heron shot with a point-and-shoot camera.

Not my birds! These wild river heron are not nearly so accommodating. A distance of 200 yards is too close. I've stepped onto my deck and spooked birds wading so far up the river that it was only because I was looking through binoculars that I even knew anything had happened.

Today's heron was no exception—constantly on high alert for any hint of movement along the bank, among the bushes…even in the sky. Once a pair of flying mallards spooked the fishing heron, causing it to squawk and lift and fly a ways downstream, even after the zooming ducks passed it by off its port wingtip. An hour later, during a different stalk, I was flummoxed when one of the island's buzzards came sailing over the roost just after noon—again sending the heron into a squawking flap-off tizzy.

But I persisted—in both my desk work and my heron stalking—and eventually completed both. It isn't the best great blue heron shot I've ever taken…but it was the best one I managed today. And at least you now know I wasn't idle.

HERON ON THE ROCKS

Blue heron on the rocks. Sounds like a drink you’d order in an eco-bar. Some little hole-in-the-wall place in the bowels of a dank city, no sign outside, known only to the cognoscenti, where those too long deprived of woods and waters and fresh air come to drown their troubles.

The pinups on the wall would be posters of mountains and wildflowers and smog-free blue sky. The jukebox might play such tunes as “Burbling Stream,” “Wind Through the Pines,” and ”Bullfrogs On the Bayou.”

A place of rescue and refuge where a man, wearied and numbed by the concrete and glass and crowded sidewalks, feeling like a rat lost in a maze after the day’s grind of traffic and all the buying and selling and deal-making, could stumble in, blink a time or two, then belly up to the bar and order: “Gimmie a blue heron on the rocks…and make it a double!”

There have been many occasions during the various incarnations of what I euphemistically call my career, when I have been that drained and bewildered town-trapped man. Had such a watering hole been available, I would have become a daily patron…

Yes, dear folks, this is the real me. No need to smoke leaves from those funny weeds that grow up the road. Just put me out in the yard with the dog early in the morning, before I’ve yet achieved my usual caffeine buzz, and my squirrelly brain is apt to go skating off on some bizarre, fantastical tangent simply because I glanced up the river and saw a familiar feathered fisherman standing patiently at the head end of the island.

The rising sun was just brushing its warm light across the water. Tendrils of fog still swirled in the shadows. The nearby world was green and soft and filled with a comfortable quiet broken only by the ringing lilt of a Carolina wren in the thicket by the driveway.

As I watched, the heron stepped onto a rock, then stepped back down into the shallow water. And kept he kept repeating this over and over—up, down, up down. I wondered if the bird was undecided about getting his feet wet? Or was he just acting like I often do in the mornings?

I understand such early-morning indecisiveness because I regularly find myself vacillating over the most mundane matters…do I want one handful of raisins in my oatmeal or two? It’s as if my brain, not yet fully committed to reasoning or reaching a decision, gets stuck in dithering mode…should I pour my coffee into the blue mug or the red one?

I’m not even gong to ask if anyone else has a similar affliction. But trust me, there are often times just after I arise when I stand in the kitchen and have to ask myself—what am I trying to think about?

Fortunately, a half hour and a cup or two of coffee and I’m up to speed, everything functioning as well as can be expected. And apparently, something finally kicked in with the heron.

After standing immobile for perhaps a quarter hour, looking upstream and down, but never into the water, the gangly slate-colored bird shook himself and seemed ready to get down to business. He hunched and began stepping slowly upstream—careful, his posture alert and coiled, ready to strike, as he was peered intently into the murky shallows.

Sometimes, the best fishing of the day comes with the burgeoning light. As a fellow fishermen, I understand such matters from long experience on many streams. Just as I understand that mornings on the water are best enjoyed in solitude, without an audience.

I turned, whistled softly to the dog, and we headed back inside.

DARK DAY HERON

It has been a cool, overcast afternoon here along the river. The weather prognosticators guessed a high of 70 degrees for today, and have steadfastly stuck to their optimistic prediction. So far, my bankside thermometer hasn’t made it past the 66 degree mark. Inside the cottage, it remains a decidedly chilly 62 degrees—which is what probably prompted me to make a pot of beef and noodles for supper; I’m thinking of cornbread to round the meal out. I’ve also been debating a hearthfire later this evening. What’s more, it’s cool coming upon the heels of cool, since yesterday’s weather was much the same. While I’ll take cool weather over hot any day, this isn’t my idea of early July or summer in Ohio. Not the usual fare. And the interesting thing is, I just received an email from my daughter who’s in Swaziland, Africa, where she reports the weather there is also in the mid-60s—much cooler than anyone expected, including folks who’ve spent years in the area. I think the lower temperatures have the birds a bit confused, as well. They’ve been busy at the feeders all day—fighting and squabbling for perching room, as intent on their eating as if they expected a snow storm to come pushing down from Canada. Even the red-bellied woodpeckers have been going at the sunflower seeds hot and heavy, more so than any day since mid-May. A light-to-medium overcast is actually the best of all photo lighting conditions for most outdoor subjects. It’s particularly good for things such as landscapes (sans-sky), wildflowers, and birds or animals if you’re not trying to “stop” action. The soft light eliminates harsh shadows and makes colors appear “saturated.” It’s great for flattering portraits, too. However, today’s heavy overcast seemed too dim for my photo plans of doing some shooting at a pocket prairie up the road. So I postponed my plans until a brighter day and decided to stay home and work on things that needed working on. A good decision, I suspect, since the light was still too dim when I kept trying to sneak up on a great blue heron late this afternoon. And before you ask, no, taking heron shots isn’t my idea of working—although as I skulked along, from sycamore to sycamore, attempting to get close without spooking the wading bird, trying to steady my handheld zoom lens against the boles of trees…and knowing immediately every time the shutter released that I’d likely failed to capture any usable image—at that moment I might have indeed claimed it was getting to be an effort awfully close to work. But, I admit, I was just a tad frustrated. And kinda chilled, too. Because the day was cool, the light was poor, I couldn’t get my shot, plus the bird was getting nervous and— And then—well, then I remembered how, no more than a week ago, when it was 91 degrees out, I’d whined and complained about sweating and being soooo-o-o hot! So, least you think I’m an ungrateful wuss (I am a wuss, but I don’t want you to think that) I hereby state I’m not whining or complaining one iota! Nope, I’m perfectly happy if summer highs never break the 80 degree mark. I’ll build fires, cook hearty food, keep the birds well fed, and gladly exchange shorts and tees for long pants and flannel shirts. I won’t say a word about losing my tan or having to wait an extra month for sweet corn to ripen. I would, however, appreciate just a teensy bit more sunlight…

BOX ELDERS AND PANCAKES

It has been a typical busy Monday here along the riverbank. Mostly sunny, but windy, which makes it feel a lot colder out than its current high of 63 degrees. Pretty, but not a particularly comfortable May day. Which is okay since I had work to complete at the desk and haven’t been able to spend much time outside anyway. For the last few minutes, though, I’ve been sitting on the stone steps which lead down to the water, watching a great blue heron across from me stalking though the shallows along the island’s bank. Three times so far the big bird has speared into the still murky water…and three times it has come up empty-beaked. Even this feathered fisherman has his off days. Whenever the wind gusts, it loosens scads of last autumn’s tannish-gold box elder samaras, which helicopter obliquely down into the big pool in front of the cottage. When the sunlight pours through their translucent membrane as they flutter and fall, they look for all the world like a hatch of mayflies dancing over a northcountry stream. This seed “rain” is, of course, is why there are countless box elders seedlings coming up all over the place along the stream’s banks. Box elders prefer a moist habitat, are fast growing, and thus make a good bank-stabilizing riparian species. Box elders are members of the maple family. In former days, where sugar maples were scarce, box elders were sometimes tapped and the extracted sap boiled down into syrup—though it took a lot more sap and evaporation work to turn the watery juice into a gallon of sweet, thick syrup. Probably tasted great on pancakes, though. Speaking of which…pancakes, not box elder syrup…I’ve spent decades and thousands of miles rattling around the great northwoods on countless fishing, camping, and get-away-from-it-all trips. A great deal of that time has been employed exploring the most remote corners of the Lake Superior country I could find. This is the land of the flapjack, or pancake, that camp kitchen staple of those legendary men whose brute labor felled the vast white pine forests with their double-bitted axes and crosscut saws. You might say I’ve become a connoisseur of pancakes, with the waistline to prove it. You’d also be surprised at how different these saucer-sized rounds of fried batter can taste from one jackpine café to the next. Some are good, most are merely passable, some are awful, and a rare few are simply ambrosial—light, fluffy, melt-in-your mouth delicious. I eventually managed to acquire a recipe which comes the closest yet to approximating the latter in my own kitchen—lacking only the sharp, pine-laden air, the rattle of a tent canvas, and the gurgle of a nearby brook trout stream where the tag alders wave over a tannin-stained riffle and the splash of a rising fish can suddenly distract and cause you to dribble warm maple syrup down your chin. In point of fact, such a pancake recipe is probably not safe in the hands of any admitted pancake aficionado unless he also possesses a preternaturally strong will, which I most decidedly lack. Given this necessary shortcoming, I’ve outsmarted my predilection for yielding to temptation by striking a sort of dietary compromise: I'll try and eat healthy and in moderation as much as possible, and in return, I get to dismiss my conscience from duty for certain days of the year—Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Independence Day, and maybe one or two others…plus my birthday. Yesterday was my birthday. I awoke (a gift in itself!), banished my conscience until the following dawn…and fixed a lumberjack-sized platter of golden pancakes on the griddle for breakfast. And I savored every syrup-dripping, butter-soaked, calorie-laden forkful! Sin without guilt…as good a birthday gift as one can give or receive!

A HIGHWATER PERSPECTIVE

Do you see the great blue heron? Look close—the big bird is standing on the edge of the far shore, right at the point where the leaf-covered bank meets the water…almost smack in the center of the photo. The distance is a bit over 200 feet, across the river from the cottage, beyond one of the islands whose lower tip you can just glimpse peeking above the water to the right. The area where the heron is standing would normally be dry ground. Between the melting snow and a number of rains, the river is up a good 6-7 feet; not yet at a worrisome height, but fast expanding in width, as the shallower stream section between the island and the far bank merges with the mainstream portion on this side of the islands. Okay…I’ve enlarged the shot as much as I can without making it too grainy. Now the heron is easy to spot. I can’t imagine the fishing over there would be easy. When a stream is in spate, running high and fast, minnows and many fish seek shelter on the bottom. The hydraulics down at stream-bed level are different than that of the water higher up. Bottom water moves slower; the slower current delivers a lighter pressure or "push" against the fish. So a little minnow doesn't need quite the strength and effort to hold itself in place against the flow. Of course it also puts the minnows below the sharp eyes and vise-like beak of a hungry heron—good news if you're a fish, but a bummer if you're a feathered angler looking to score a meal along the shoreline. Yet what are the alternatives? The bird’s usual shallow riffles, where it normally wade-fishes daily, are temporarily buried deep underwater. There are no small feeder creeks nearby, no ponds that aren’t themselves now flooded. Sometimes a bad choice is also the only choice. Besides, high-water days are nothing new to the river’s residents. Inconvenient, maybe, but not critical. For the Canada geese, it may even be enjoyable. All morning I've watched them appear in noisy flocks, twenty or more birds at a shot, honking like about-to-be-late commuters stuck in a traffic jam. The clamorous clans set down on the backwaters above the island just upstream from where the heron in the photo is fishing. There the gregarious geese—still honking—mill about for a few minutes, paddling to stay in their flooded landing zone. Then they suddenly allow the river to take them—and as they come to the upstream end of the lower island, they divide into two groups. Downstream they go, lickety-split, speeding on the fast current, freewheeling along like kids at a waterpark. They honk back and forth across the narrow ridge of dry land, keeping in touch, maybe checking their pace against that of their fellow float-trippers. When they meet a half-minute later where the divided river's two streams merge into one at the island's tail end, they commence honking excitedly, almost in glee at the fun they’ve just had racing downstream. Then, after a brief rest, they flap back up to their starting point and do the whole thing over again. I don’t care what anyone says, I think those birds are playing. The river continues rising, another foot overnight. High water brings bad fishing for the heron, furnishes makeshift amusement for the geese, and now makes me watchful. Still, like so many things in life…what it boils down to is just a matter of perspective.