![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Home of the Eagle
Aug. 30th, 2004 09:31 amEvery day is an adventure, and every adventure is an inconvenience reconsidered. Yesterday's inconvenience involved a few minor blisters and sore shoulders. I went kayaking again. This was the first time I went alone. Although I didn't have anyone to talk to, it didn't stop me from vocalizing. I sang "Land of the Silver Birch" as a cadence for my paddling.
This time, I was in a turquoise single kayak. It was a bit more bathtubby than the sleek yellow one I last voyaged in. It was more sluggish in the water, but still went faster than anyone could ever hope to swim. The wildlife wasn't as abundant, this time around. I saw a couple of ducks, and off in the distance, the bald eagle flapped his way further and further into the sky before soaring down on a spiralling thermal. Tawny little shore birds chirped at one another and darted along the island beaches before launching themselves through the air, their shapes the silhouettes of boomerangs. Mysterious bubble trails led me upstream. They may have been the exhalations of beavers. A lodge nestles amongst the rushes along the shore, after all. Somewhere, off to the north, I could hear a murder of crows screaming and calling. Several groups of three broke off and wheeled their way across the river in silence.
And then it was time to return to the pier. I could see a large black shape downstream. At first, I thought it was a small motorboat, but I saw a strange dark flapping motion. Fishermen don't tend to flap, leaving that job instead to birds and landed fish. As I got closer, I saw that it was indeed movement of the avian kind. A dozen large birds perched on a dead tree floating down the St. John River. I thought they were crows, but they hurled themselves into the water in a manner I'd never assume of crows. They were cormorants. I let my boat drift with the current, and I watched them. Some lifted themselves out of the river with powerful wing thrusts. Some paddled across the river to the opposite shore. And still others disappeared beneath the water, reappearing much further away with surprised expressions.
I want to do it again tonight.
This time, I was in a turquoise single kayak. It was a bit more bathtubby than the sleek yellow one I last voyaged in. It was more sluggish in the water, but still went faster than anyone could ever hope to swim. The wildlife wasn't as abundant, this time around. I saw a couple of ducks, and off in the distance, the bald eagle flapped his way further and further into the sky before soaring down on a spiralling thermal. Tawny little shore birds chirped at one another and darted along the island beaches before launching themselves through the air, their shapes the silhouettes of boomerangs. Mysterious bubble trails led me upstream. They may have been the exhalations of beavers. A lodge nestles amongst the rushes along the shore, after all. Somewhere, off to the north, I could hear a murder of crows screaming and calling. Several groups of three broke off and wheeled their way across the river in silence.
And then it was time to return to the pier. I could see a large black shape downstream. At first, I thought it was a small motorboat, but I saw a strange dark flapping motion. Fishermen don't tend to flap, leaving that job instead to birds and landed fish. As I got closer, I saw that it was indeed movement of the avian kind. A dozen large birds perched on a dead tree floating down the St. John River. I thought they were crows, but they hurled themselves into the water in a manner I'd never assume of crows. They were cormorants. I let my boat drift with the current, and I watched them. Some lifted themselves out of the river with powerful wing thrusts. Some paddled across the river to the opposite shore. And still others disappeared beneath the water, reappearing much further away with surprised expressions.
I want to do it again tonight.
