Things are not always what they seem

Or, maybe they are.

I’m sitting out on the dock today working on some blog posts in advance. It’s truly a beautiful day—although, by the time you read this, it may not be. But, right now, it’s about 76° and sunny, the very best kind of Florida winter day.

So, I’m thankful for the weather. And I’m thankful for the wireless technology that allows me to sit out here and work. I do need, perhaps, to get a more comfortable deck chair—because this one is designed more for lounging than typing—but why quibble? I mean, there are a lot of people with no deck chair at all.

Another thing for which I am thankful is the mystery and the drama of the coots. As I sat here, a solitary coot went paddling by me. Now, you must understand, a solitary coot is an unusual thing. They travel in packs.

At first, I thought, “Aha! Straggler! You better hurry up.” This coot had a lean and hungry look, different than the usual cheerful rotundity of coots, that made me think, perhaps, he was always a straggler, always just booking along to catch up to the rest.

But, then, I saw the rest of the flock way down the creek far behind this one.

I thought, “Aha! Scout! You’re the advance guard.”

But, then, I saw the rest of the flock turn and go the other way.

So, now, I don’t know.

Has there been a falling out among the coots? Has my fast feathered friend, perhaps, departed in high dudgeon over some slight, real or imagined? Is the rest of the flock too conservative to dare the shining waters beyond the bridge, or is the lone swimmer fearful of some alligator the rest have decided to brave?

It’s a mystery.

Quick! Call CNN! We need an investigative journalist. There are stories to be told at the creek.

Avian Antics

Who can fathom a bird brain?

It’s been a couple of days of bird bemusedness.

First, there was an injured bluebird, being succored out at the farm.

And the begging duck, unfortunately trained by one of my cousins to like Cheerios, with the result that he (or she) was constantly underfoot at another cousin’s homecoming party. Which is hilarious—partly because ducks are inherently hilarious but also because I’m more used to dogs and cats weaving around my ankles than I am to ducks. (As I said to yet another cousin, “‘Stop chasing the duck’ isn’t a sentence I heard very often in New York.) So, funny, yes, but I don’t really imagine that dropped potato chips are good for ducks. On the other hand, hanging around the humans may keep it out of the way of predators, so who knows?

Meanwhile, we seem to be a stop on the migration path of the Turkey Vultures. Nothing like seeing five or six of them ominously circling overhead and then looking up to find another dozen hulking in the trees above you. Even if you didn’t know they were scavengers, I think you’d find those big dark forms, hunched over and peering down at you, to be something less than a good omen.

However, their dour presence is offset by the Canadian Geese standing on their heads in the pond. Three or four of them with their little butts in the air just make me laugh–especially with a small white heron standing there staring at them.

We had a baby hawk sitting on our mailbox for a time last week.

Then, there are the coots. I’ve been wondering where they’ve gone. And, yesterday, a group of four or five coots came back—in the rain—to huddle next to the sea wall. I don’t know why they don’t swim under the dock. The huddling seems to indicate they aren’t that fond of the rain, but they don’t take the obvious shelter. So, I don’t know. Who can fathom the mind of a bird?

But it’s a miracle, in the face of humanity’s ever increasing encroachment on their habitats, to have all these flighty friends around, still, to astonish and perplex me.

Where, oh, where

Do the coots go in the summer?

That’s what I’m wondering today.

You see, the coots came back yesterday.

Every winter, usually in late November, we see a few coots. First there are four or five. Then there are twelve. Then there are twenty-four. And then you can’t count them.

This year, I was starting to wonder if something had happened to them. I was hoping it was just that it was still warm enough wherever they were for them to stay there, but I confess to fleeting thoughts about strange avian anomalies—like those red-winged blackbirds that mysteriously fell out of the sky in Arkansas on New Year’s Eve 2011.

So, I was especially delighted to see seven of them swim by the dock this morning. I’m almost always delighted to see the coots, anyway, because they are so hilarious, with their white faces bobbing back and forth as they skedaddle along. They are so sociable, always hanging out in groups, and almost certainly taunting the yellow lab that lived next door. I’m not sure how they knew she wouldn’t go in after them, but they did—swimming right up to the dock and just waiting until the last minute for her to rush up barking wildly before they leisurely flitted a few feet out of reach.

I get a kick out of coots.

I’m happy to have them back. It makes me feel like nature has a friendly side. (Not always my impression when the mosquitoes are auditioning for Dracula and the sweet gums are hurling limbs at me or grasshoppers are chewing my window screens.)

The coots swim by in the morning and, usually, again in the afternoon. We greet each other cordially. (Well, okay—I wave out the window, and they don’t actually spit at me or anything.) I watch with interest as the flock expands exponentially. I think they just gather friends and relations over time as I don’t think I’ve ever seen a baby coot. (A cootlet?)

I sometimes think it would be nice if they stayed around all year, but it’s likely we would take each other for granted if that were the case. It’s probably best that they remain a seasonal pleasure.

But where do they go in the summer?

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Tag Archives: Coots

Things are not always what they seem

Avian Antics

Where, oh, where