Tag Archives: rock dove (Columba livia)

The magic hour

With the sun already slipping below the horizon, I packed up my gear and headed out the door for the minute or so walk to the lake.  By the time I reached Sunset Bay, all but the last vestiges of sunlight had vanished and what little remained offered nothing more than the soft, warm glow of a distant fire reflected in the clouds.

Yet something magical happens at dusk, at that time after sunset but before darkness settles in completely, those precious and scarce moments when the world seems torn asunder with night full to the east and day grasping at its final seconds to the west.

The orange embers of day faded quickly as I approached the shore.  A chill settled over the land, a quick cutting of the air that seemed hurried to reclaim from daylight all that it could touch, so I pulled my jacket a bit tighter about me.

Cool winds slid over the water and rushed ashore.  The bay offered no protection.

I considered turning back, going home.  What possible opportunities rested in dark times?

Then an armada of shadows came near such that I felt I could reach out and grasp their lightless forms.

A covert of American coots (Fulica americana) swimming near shore (2009_02_13_008288)

At first I believed them to be alike, creatures of one form forever clad in the dark armor of dusk, yet my feeble human eyes grew accustomed to failing light and with that newfound strength, I began to see a menagerie of ghostly figures.

Some danced in pools of reflection that captured day’s end and sent it back heavenward in ripples of color.  Some took flight on ethereal wings and floated effortlessly on air.  Some walked the earth with the likeness of corporeal substance.

A rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) walking toward me (2009_02_13_008300)

All shapes and colors materialized, wisps of smoke manifest in fleshly forms, whispers from the dark only dreams could create.

How soon I realized the bewitched armies of dusk were on the move.  Battalions and regiments and squadrons and fleets took shape from what moments before had been the empty evening.  And finally the horn players appeared and sounded the trumpets of advance.  The march had begun.

A brown domestic swan goose (a.k.a. Chinese goose or African goose; Anser cygnoides) floating just offshore (2009_02_13_008307)

Up from the depths and out of the sky came hordes of spirits in guises both familiar and alien.  Whether from the cold or fear, I could not escape the tremble whose skeletal fingers ran down my spine, the specter of death in the face of such monstrous beauty as took shape before me.

Cloaked in white save the crimson of her face, the high priestess of this gathering flitted upon the breeze to a station nearby where she glowed as though capturing all light and bringing it unto herself.  All around her dimmed in her presence.

A white female Muscovy duck (Cairina moschata) standing quietly (2009_02_13_008462)

Then the sky became one with the lake, a powerful act she wished into being without the slightest gesture, and upon the water’s surface the heavens fell.  What hues!  What patterns!

The magic she wielded summoned yet more demons, yet more powerful beings, yet more fantastic works of the gods.  And where the elements beckoned to her call and became one, the waters parted for the royal court who would this night stand before the armies of dusk and bow to the god and goddess of royalty.

A female lesser scaup (Aythya affinis) swimming in the shallows (2009_02_13_008503)

A hush seemed to fall.  I found myself holding my breath and wondering.  Would I survive this encounter with those of this other world, this place betwixt the realm of light and the realm of dark?  What hides such power from the witnesses of life?  What was yet to come?

Even then they arrived, the royal guards whose voices chase away devils and whose approach sends challengers fleeing.  With them they ushered in the last inhalation of the hour, and then they exhaled the mystic thought that chased the day away.  And the light hurried over the horizon.

A ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) enjoying the sunset (2009_02_13_008419)

Then they came.  I tried not to look, tried not to meet their gaze.  My attempts were futile.  My humble soul could not refuse the deities who slipped between worlds and ruled the dusk.

First the god-queen who herself was made of light and shadow and all that exists in between.  She floated from place to place, a body in the guise of spirits and a soul in the guise of flesh, and she took her place where land and sea and air joined as one.

A female wood duck (Aix sponsa) paddling slowly close to land (2009_02_13_008560)

In her eyes I found eternity, the burning depths of the universe filled with stars and conquest, her reach forever and her will undeniable.  Yet even she knew subservience.  I saw a goddess bow her head, and in that instant I revered what was to come.

And finally, the god-king.  Eyes of crimson rage and fiery passion, cloaked with colors no being could imagine, the order of all that is became apparent while in the presence of such power.  He seemed to draw strength from the worship that flooded over him, from the absolute knowledge of all those gathered that he was the first and would be the last, that he breathed life into the cosmos for his own entertainment, that he demanded unwavering trust and unflinching allegiance.  The sanctity of the encounter grew as I realized trepidation followed heartfelt devotion: this shadow cast felt such ardor for their gods, such deference.  They would follow them unto the end of time and would sacrifice their lives for them.

A male wood duck (Aix sponsa) drifting in the lake with full breeding plumage on display (2009_02_13_008554)

Only the hour that is neither day nor night could contain such magic.  Only dusk could give stage to beings such as these.

I watched as they marched onward, a legion vast before which all fell, a countless army of shadows before which a wave of triumph washed over the land and brushed aside all challengers.  I watched as the god-queen and god-king empowered the innumerable to unstoppable success; they vanquished all who stood in their way.

Then the last drop of light fell into the cupped hands of the world.  Nightfall…

I shook myself lose from the imaginings that had filled my mind.  I still wanted to take pictures.

Ah, but the day had ended, dusk had been eclipsed by dark, and I stood at the shore of Sunset Bay where I had begun my walk.  I hadn’t even lifted the camera from my side.  I felt there was no sense in trying after night enveloped the area.  I turned and walked home.

Only the next day would I discover the memory card full of pictures I never took, of creatures I never saw, of encounters I never had.  Only the next day would I again wonder about the armies of dusk.  Only the next day would I ponder an encounter with gods made of shadow and light, of armies before which light itself would retreat.  Only the next day would I wonder…

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] A covert of American coots (Fulica americana) swimming near shore.

[2] A rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) walking toward me.

[3] A brown domestic swan goose (a.k.a. Chinese goose or African goose; Anser cygnoides) floating just offshore.

[4] A white female Muscovy duck (Cairina moschata) standing quietly.

[5] A female lesser scaup (Aythya affinis) swimming in the shallows.

[6] A ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) enjoying the sunset.

[7] A female wood duck (Aix sponsa) paddling slowly close to land.

[8] A male wood duck (Aix sponsa) drifting in the lake with full breeding plumage on display.

On wings

Not long ago Mary spoke about the difficulty of photographing birds.  She wrote:

I recently read a remark from a blogger in New England, “…photographing birds is hard work.” I never thought of it that way. However, truth be told, a few days, weeks, or months pass and maybe several hundred photos get dumped before I nail a glorious, unedited series of shots. Yes, it’s hard work, struggling to maintain the virtue of patience and practicin’ cussin’ skills.

And she’s right.  Like the rest of nature, birds don’t respond well to the “Say cheese!” or “Sit still, damn it!” commands, or any of the other usual suspects in our repertoire of photography directives.

However, circumstances sometimes conspire in a way that provides opportunity to capture an avian moment more difficult than the usual image of something perched on a branch or swimming in a lake.  I mean birds in flight.

A ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) in flight (2008_12_07_001101)

While many gull species overwinter at White Rock Lake, the ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) remains the most common.  Both adults and juveniles spend plenty of time fighting with the coots and ducks and geese for every little tasty tidbit that can be found.

And woe is the unsuspecting person who comes to the water’s edge with a treat hoping to birth an encounter with the other inhabitants.  Gulls will swarm in flight and will challenge almost anything that gets in the way of a free meal.

Three rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) in flight (2008_12_27_003639)

Rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) enjoy a permanent home around these parts.  Truth be told, after being introduced to North America, they made themselves at home anywhere humans live—just as they have around the globe.  In fact, rock doves are ubiquitous in the world and thrive in urban and suburban landscapes, and they have been involved with humans for thousands of years, something that makes it next to impossible to determine their geographic origin.

A great blue heron (Ardea herodias) in flight (2008_12_16_002433)

A veritable laundry list of heron and egret species live here.  The most elusive is also the largest: the great blue heron (Ardea herodias).  Yet this behemoth tends to stay with the rest of the pack.

There exists a firth stretching inland from behind the old paddle boat building where one these days can snag a canoe or kayak.  The lake’s arm that reaches behind that structure, though, is so far removed from the world of humans that it hardly seems possible to bridge the gap between them.  Egrets and herons of all sorts make this lagoon their home.  At the right time of day, it’s possible to see several dozen birds of many different species, including the great blue.

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) in flight (2008_12_25_003220)

Loud.  Obnoxious.  Willing to travel with the pelicans when it’s feeding time in hopes of grabbing a free fish stirred up by the larger birds, a practice that has landed them in the gaping beak of more than one pelican.

The number of double-crested cormorants (Phalacrocorax auritus) explodes in winter as migrants find their way back to this wildlife refuge, an oasis tucked gently in the middle of Dallas’s far-reaching sprawl.  Morning, noon or night, these mouthy, large birds can be found at the water theater behind the Bath House Cultural Center.

A turkey vulture (Cathartes aura) in flight (2008_12_24_002716)

With all manner of wildlife living and dying in the middle of the city thanks to this man-made lake and surrounding park, turkey vultures (Cathartes aura) thrive here alongside their less evident cousins, the American black vulture.  Although it might be hard to believe, I see more vultures here than I do when I visit the family farm in East Texas’s Piney Woods.

Turkey vultures are birds of prey.  Sure, they spend a great deal of time looking for meals that are already dead, but they don’t mind doing the dirty work themselves when circumstances warrant.  Nevertheless, it’s obvious they find it much easier to soar around overhead waiting for nature to set the table and cook the meal instead of doing it themselves.

A great egret (Ardea alba) in flight (2008_12_13_002350)

The first time I discovered the heron and egret sanctuary behind the paddle boat area, at least a dozen great egrets (Ardea alba) sat about in the trees, some offering raucous cries when one of the others invaded their personal space.  Much wing flapping and neck stretching ensued, after which one of the birds would move on to another branch or another tree.

One marvelous trait of the great egrets in this area is that they are far more tolerant of people than the great blue herons.  That’s not to say one can walk right up and pet them; it is to say they’re easier to photograph, and not just because there are a lot more of them.

A juvenile red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) in flight (2008_12_25_003356)

Hawks, eagles, falcons, merlins, owls…  When it comes to birds of prey, White Rock has them all.  The only problem with photographing them comes from the challenge of finding them.  While hunting, they stay high or out of sight; while resting, they stay tucked away in the dense woodlands; and when running from the local murder of crows who mob the larger species, they run like the devil no matter who sees them.

Red-tailed hawks (Buteo jamaicensis) perhaps represent the species most often seen.  Why that is I don’t know since there are so many others to be found if one looks carefully enough.

Three ring-billed gulls (Larus delawarensis) lined up in flight (2008_12_07_001275)

Back to ring-billed gulls.  Why?  Because I really like the way this photo turned out.  Nothing more complicated than perception…

And finally my two favorites from this series…

I stood at the shore in Sunset Bay and took pictures of every little thing that caught my eye.  Bright sunshine did little to assuage the chill wind sweeping in from the north.  Gusts blowing at more than 40 mph/64 kph had me resting against a tree so I didn’t blow over—something that had already happened more than a few times earlier in my walk.

Reeds and brush at the water’s edge swayed back and forth, but mostly the dry plants pressed themselves down while pointing south as the arctic air invading Texas rolled over everything in its path.  Once I realized all the blowing stems would make photography difficult from where I stood, I made my way to the pier jutting into the bay.  The sandbar reaching north from the jetty would keep water from spraying into my face, and at least the lack of plants would give me a clear view.

Regal bald cypress trees stand on either side of the pier’s entrance.  As winter steals their verdant splendor, the foliage puts on clothes the color of rust and falls to the ground, something that creates a soft blanket of deep orange and red.  The planks under my feet eventually became clear once I reached the place where the wind scoured from the surface everything not nailed down.

At the end of the pier where I wanted to plant myself, a young man stood atop his bicycle, his mouth agape as he stared at the American white pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos).  At least a dozen of them already occupied the sandbar, some sleeping, some preening, some standing and staring aimlessly as though unsure of what to do with their time.

Overhead, sweeping in from their breakfast hunt in the deeper water near the spillway, yet more of these leviathans soared in on wings held still.  Conservation of energy defines their flight, much like that of vultures and hawks and eagles, and windy days can both help and hinder this effort.  Moving from southwest to northeast, the pelicans could use the strong northerly winds to their advantage for both flying and braking.

I finally reached the end of the pier where the young man stood.  His red sweatshirt was pulled tight and the hood provided only the smallest space for his face to see out.  Yet hidden or not, the surprise on his face clearly mixed with glee as he watched a parade of pelicans fly right over him as they circled the bay once or twice before landing (in this sense, the wind didn’t help since many of them missed their first try).

The wood under my feet moaned and creaked as I stepped up beside him.  He immediately turned, his blond hair blowing against his face as his crystal blue eyes devoured the entire landscape before us.  “Wow!” he exclaimed, then he looked up to watch another pelican coast overhead.  “Look at the size of them!  I guess there really are fish in this lake.”

I burst into laughter.  That comment alone meant he was new to the area—or at least new to this season at the lake.

We chatted a bit about the pelicans, for no more than a few minutes, then he spun his bike around and headed back to land.  He quickly disappeared around the north end of the bay as he continued his ride.

Which left me to watch the remaining pelicans arrive for their afternoon bath and siesta.

An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) in flight (2008_12_24_002761)

I might add I came awfully close to falling in the water more than once as I tried to take pictures.  Bracing against the unrelenting wind with only the viewfinder giving me an idea of the world around me made for a greater challenge than I expected.

Thankfully Sunset Bay is rather shallow, the confluence bringing a great deal of sediment into the area that only gets swept away during spring floods.

An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) in flight (2008_12_24_002923)

But I didn’t fall in.  Instead, I wallowed in the privilege of seeing pelican after pelican fly close both above and in front of me, each one trying for a soft landing in the face of winter’s chill blow.  Only when my fingers could no longer operate the camera did I turn and walk away, a grateful and overjoyed man who couldn’t have asked for a warmer reception on such a cold day.

Why birds?

When I began the process of purging my photo collection, essentially sweeping away the past to make room for the future, I started with birds, something you’ll see in this post and others to follow.

But why birds?

A male wood duck (Aix sponsa) molting into eclipse plumage (20080628_08107)

Good question.

I have a lot of bird pictures.  Yet that’s not really the answer to the question.

A complete albino rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) walking into the grass (20080628_07967)

I think I began with birds since our avian friends offer a mix of challenge and ease that results in a veritable bounty of images.

Then again, perhaps I complicate matters when a simpler answer would more appropriately address the question.

A snowy egret (Egretta thula) with a small fish in its bill (20080614_06582)

While I could say it’s because I love birds almost as much as I love insects, even that would not provide the full truth of why I started with our avian friends.

A northern mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos) perched in a treetop (20080518_05644)

It all boils down to this one fact: it’s winter.

A female brown-headed cowbird (Molothrus ater) in the grass (20080426_04903)

Even here in North Texas, winter means an end to the bounty of arthropods and flora and reptiles and a great deal of nature’s many wonders.  Most trees are left stark and barren along with the vast majority of plants as they wither into their cocoons of hibernation or death; cold-blooded creatures fade with the passing seasons into a frigid slumber or the end of their generation; insects and arachnids shrink away beneath the blanket of the first killing freeze; and ultimately most of the beauty I so enjoy disappears under winter’s cloak.

Yet birds thrive, at least where I live, and their numbers and kinds explode as residents leave for warmer days and nights at the same time migrants arrive trying to escape colder temperatures to the north.

A scissor-tailed flycatcher (Tyrannus forficatus) perched in a tree (20080426_04717)

So expunging historic photos of birds came naturally since, right now, I’m snapping a lot of bird pictures.

It’s no more complicated than that.  Besides, I have yet to go through the arthropods, plants, mammals and reptiles that comprise the remainder of my collection.  Rest assured they will have their time in the spotlight.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] A male wood duck (Aix sponsa) who’s molting into eclipse plumage.  He wanted to know who and what I was, but his curiosity never won the battle it waged with his sense of self-preservation.  Instead, he followed me along the north shore of White Rock Lake, always staying near enough to keep an eye on me whilst simultaneously being distant enough to feel safe.

[2] A complete albino rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia).  I have seen partial albinism, incomplete albinism and imperfect albinism in rock doves (along with many other creatures), but this was the first time I ever saw complete albinism in this species.  It foraged and flocked with the dule, yet it stood out like a lone redwood tree in a hayfield.

[3] A snowy egret (Egretta thula) with a small fish in its bill.  This beautiful creature spent the morning wading in the shallows of Sunset Bay looking for something to eat.  I watched it miss more meals than I could count.  Just when I felt the poor thing would go hungry, it caught a small fish and enjoyed the fruit of its labor.

[4] A northern mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos).  Perched in the top of a tree under which I stood unaware of its presence, this marvelous parent watched me intently as its offspring fledged a few steps away.  I absentmindedly moved toward the child, and it was then the dutiful guard made its presence known with a sweeping dive at my head coupled with the scream of a marauder moving in for the kill.  I snapped the photo as I moved away.

[5] A female brown-headed cowbird (Molothrus ater).  On a cloudy day and from quite a distance, I felt certain this was nothing more than a sparrow (albeit a large-than-normal sparrow).  Bad lighting can often hide the difference what is and what isn’t.  I walked away from that moment feeling she was something else entirely, something boring, so I was thrilled I took the photo as it brought into focus what I had really seen.

[6] A scissor-tailed flycatcher (Tyrannus forficatus).  I watched this individual and one other as they performed their magical aerial ballet in the light of sunrise.  Catching insects in flight is neat enough on its own; doing so with that flowing, unbelievably long tail creates an altogether different image.

Flights of fancy

What fantasies rest upon dreams made of feathered wings…

A female red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) soaring high above the family farm in East Texas (2008_12_06_000193)

To take flight, to swim naked through the ether under the power of my own mind…  Ah, such is the foundation of hope.

A dule of rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) circling above Sunset Bay at White Rock Lake (2008_12_07_000543)

Envy fills the space betwixt the flying bird and mine eyes.

An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) taking off near the sandbar in Sunset Bay at White Rock Lake (2008_12_07_000681)

Tiptoeing across the lake’s surface becomes the godlike fantasy of all men: to waltz upon the water without sinking.

A juvenile black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax) flying in front of autumnal woodlands (2008_12_13_002065)

For something so ethereal as air to hold me aloft, for something so invisible as atmosphere to defy gravity…

A great egret (Ardea alba) soaring above the western shoreline of White Rock Lake (2008_12_13_002352)

Stretching my arms unto the ends of the earth only to find them capable of holding me above the ground rests within the confines of powerful magic.

A juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) turning sharply as it flew over my position on the pier in Sunset Bay at White Rock Lake (2008_12_07_001460)

The world would fill my sight with vistas profound and indomitable.  Every tiny thing moving upon the ground and every flying beast flitting through the cosmos would bring to me visions meant for more powerful beings.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] A female red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) soaring high above the family farm in East Texas.  She spent a great deal of time arcing beyond sight where the treetops shielded her from prying eyes, yet once in a while she came into view as she circled, climbing higher and higher with each pass, moving further into the distance as she began her hunt.

[2] A dule of rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) circling above Sunset Bay at White Rock Lake.  Seen at top left is the marvelously unique dove I first encountered in November.

[3] An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) taking off near the sandbar in Sunset Bay.  Other pelicans remained wholly unimpressed with the giant bird as it skipped across the water’s surface while its powerful wings carried it aloft.

[4] A juvenile black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax) remained unseen until it took flight, its plumage offering superior camouflage amongst the autumnal limbs already stripped naked by powerful winds and seasonal change.  The bird remained unnoticed while I visited the inlet that herons and egrets frequent, and it caught me by surprise when it took to the air.

[5] A great egret (Ardea alba) soaring above the shoreline.  I surprised it as I rounded the corner that provided it a reed-filled hiding place, but I found myself fortunate enough to suspect its presence before I stepped into the clearing where it hid.

[6] A juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) turning sharply as it flew over my position on the pier in Sunset Bay.

Views from my belly

Mary and I discussed in the comments once how sometimes we have to lie on the ground to get the kind of photograph we want.  Whether it be flowers or lizards or something else entirely, a great deal can be said for a prostrate approach.

Milling about on two legs and taking pictures of anything that seems worthwhile is a practice requiring little forethought.  Although I hardly think myself an artist, I have discovered that looking at things from a point of view contrary to our own lends itself to results that stand out from the pack.  Not only does such imagery offer something more appealing than the subject alone, but it also seems more natural, as though we could sneak in and watch the world unfold without interfering with it.

Another piece of the puzzle is stability.  When shooting hand-held, stabilizing the camera means putting as much foundation beneath it as is possible.  Snapping pictures during a walk is one thing; having time to really focus on the subject is something else entirely.  Lying on the ground means I’m not wobbling on tired legs, not shifting my weight back and forth, not swaying in the wind.

Photographing wildlife demands that we become as small as possible.  The smaller we appear to creatures great and small, the less of a threat we seem to be.  That means we can get closer or, as my experience has shown, that wildlife is willing to get closer to us.  Much closer in some cases.  Being relatively tiny and using small, slow movements has afforded me not just the opportunity to snap some presentable images, but it’s also given me the chance to enjoy many close encounters that can only be described as magical.

But perspective leaps to mind as the most important factor, at least in my case.  A great deal of nature photography oozes from a standing position, a view always looking down on the subject in a way that diminishes it, reduces its impact, hides the intricacies of its presentation.  This approach works fine for those spur-of-the-moment images captured when some fantastical creature is fleeting by without interest in stopping to pose.  But when the opportunity arises, I think the best results come from looking at things from their own level.

So with all that in mind, I want to share some experiences from an autumn walk not too long ago.  All of these capture nature from ground level.

American coots (Fulica americana) gathered on the bank of a creek (20081127_14864)

These American coots (Fulica americana) gathered on the bank, some preening, some standing about looking bored, and others grabbing a quick bite to eat from what few morsels could be found in the dormant grass.  A few times they looked at me with curiosity, but mostly they ignored me.

A rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) with highly unusual plumage coloration and patterns (20081127_14908)

Despite its highly unusual coloration, this beautiful rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) stayed with the dule as the entire group had breakfast and tried to avoid the rather unruly grackles.  In fact, the doves were so comfortable with my presence that, even standing, they walked right up to me, one of them even daring to walk across my foot.  This one especially caught my eye, however, for I had never before seen one with plumage like this.  Although rock doves often display a wide range of colors and patterns, most demonstrate the classic form.

A close-up of a rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) as it forages (20081127_14910)

And speaking of a more classic rock dove, this one walked right up to the camera at one point—so close that I couldn’t take a picture without switching to macro mode.  The charcoal color it shows usually comes through as a lighter gray in most of its kind, yet this morph is far more common than the (IMHO) one-of-a-kind bird in the previous photo.

A close-up of a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) that has gone to seed (20081127_14945)

A world full of stars held high atop a thin arm.  The common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) has a bad reputation as the scourge of gardeners and groundskeepers around the globe.  Nevertheless, I think both the golden flower and the feathery seed head offer more than weeds; their beauty, in my mind, is unquestionable, and they also represent the single most recognizable set of memories stretching right through my childhood.  Who doesn’t remember holding one of these and blowing on it just to watch the seeds take flight?  What a simple act, sure, but I bet a right of passage for most kids.

A male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) looking down his beak at me (20081127_15007)

Lying on the pier in Sunset Bay at White Rock Lake, I held the camera down near the water’s surface hoping I could somehow grab a bit of the magic happening all over the lake, from pelicans and cormorants to ducks and gulls.  That didn’t work out very well due to the wind blowing my hands about and the choppy waves threatening to splash water on the camera.  Yet as as I tried, this male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) landed nearby and screamed.  A stone’s throw from where I was, he bellowed time and again, often doing so as he looked right at me.  Perhaps I was in his favorite spot.

(And check out the flattop on that bird!  It gives him an almost Frankenstein look, at least from that angle.)

A shimmering, very small white unidentified flower seen at White Rock Lake (20081127_15024)

I’ve yet to identify this tiny flower, but it and its kith and kin permeated every step I took.  So short that most stems held their flowers below the dry grass and so small that a single bloom disappeared completely beneath my fingertip, only in their vast numbers did they become apparent.  The ground shimmered as sunlight danced across their varied hues.  Some were brilliant white and others were varying shades from lavender to cyan.

A mourning dove (Zenaida macroura) glancing at me as it forages for food (20081127_15132)

My adoration for mourning doves (Zenaida macroura) is second only to that for the red-winged blackbird.  The soulful voice of these birds always stops me cold.  It’s the sweetest lamentation one can ever hear.  When I found several wandering beneath a canopy of trees as they rounded up something for breakfast, I had to stop and enjoy their company.  Several of them came quite near (within an arm’s length).  The blue jays were more skittish than these stunning creatures.

A female fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) sitting up on her haunches with her front paws crossed in front of her (20081127_15177)

“Pardon me, sir, but have you seen any acorns?”  Well, that’s what I thought this female fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) was asking when she stopped right in front of me, sat up, crossed her hands in a fretted manner, and looked right at me.  Realizing as a prey animal that squirrels see best to the sides and not in front of them, I knew she was watching me as I lay there snapping a few pictures of her.  Eventually she went on with her business, and so did I.