As it gets warmer, I’ve been spending a lot more time down on the dock, smoking a cigar and watching the dogs froth and churn in the water.
That’s where I found myself several nights ago, under a brilliant waxing moon in weather so warm the fish were popping all around me like bubbles in a deep fryer. The hounds had already charged off into the night, not to be seen again until the next morning. Another jailbreak that leaves me wondering where they go, what they do, with their much-coveted freedom. I need to invent a dog GPS or Gilligan Cam at some point so I can snoop on their midnight rambles.
That left me, Xena the noble Newf and the fish soaking in the moonlight when three sharp croaks echoed through the cove, followed immediately by swishing feathers and the sandpaper scraping of claws on shingles. A massive blue heron had alighted on the dock’s pitched roof, right in front of me and Xena. He didn’t see us. At least not until Xena became very agitated and made it known herons aren’t welcome on her dock.
The heron sprang off the roof, flapping and croaking through the moonlight into the shadows on the other side of the cove.
During the day, it’s amusing to watch gulls work their way in from the main channel, dive bombing along the way in search of fish, pirouetting on the breeze and trying again. Their ballet is rudely interrupted by a kingfisher as he cackles along inches above the water. My mind instantly slips to an old Pink Floyd lyric …
“Hear the lark harken to the barking of the dark fox
“Gone to ground.
“See the splashing of the kingfisher flashing to the water.
“And a river of green is sliding unseen beneath the trees.”