Six Mergansers

Six male mergansers swim on the river. The sight of Ben and I walking by causes them to take to the air. Their webbed-feet skim along the water, as they fly downstream. The brilliant white of their bodies in stark contrast to the deep dark river. 

I hear the wild chattering call of a belted kingfisher. Spy its steel blue feathers in a barren willow tree. The first of the season. Earlier than usual this year.  

As we approach Route 13, the roar of cars causes Ben to sit and drop the beer can he is carrying. This is our routine. He picks up beer cans as we walk to take home and turn in for a deposit. He stops and sits when a car comes toward us, to be rewarded with a dog biscuit. Biscuits paid for by the cans he has collected. But no car is turning down the road. It takes a while to convince Ben that sitting for imaginary cars is only rewarded with imaginary biscuits. 

On the way home a huge dark bird flies low overhead. Too big for a hawk, it lacks the silhouette of a vulture. There is no telltale white head or tail glistening in the sun. Not an eagle then, unless maybe it’s a juvenile.  

In the midst of a pandemic, it is spring as usual for the mergansers, kingfishers, eagles. Only we have been sent to our rooms by Mother Nature.