hooded merganser

hooded merganser

with wounded wings flees from my

inept rescue attempts

This story begins and ends with a small white feather. I find the first one lying on golden pine needles, then a few more scattered along the path through tall pines on the west side of Pleasant Lake. Seeing so many feathers, I surmise that some bird ran afoul of a four-legged predator.
          After I cross a little wooden foot bridge, I catch sight of movement in the bushes, some kind of brown bird, awkwardly thrashing through the undergrowth. At first I think it must be a baby that can't fly yet, but it is rather large. The bird keeps flopping and falling over, and when I get a clear view I see that it can't fly because its wings are broken, the left wing ragged and bent forward, the right wing nearly torn from the bird's body.
          The bird has a striking crest of cinnamon feathers on top of the head like an open fan, a long, pointed black beak, round golden eyes, black feet and a short tail. Her plain brown color suggests that she is a female, but I've never seen a bird like this. Later, my birder friend identifies the bird as a female Hooded Merganser, a small duck native to North America. Short-distance migrants, they move north in the spring as the weather warms up. Mergansers are monogamous and this female probably has a mate and a nest, though hopefully containing only eggs, not babies.
          As I continue to follow the mysterious bird through the brush, the frantic duck, driven by fear, rolls down the muddy bank of the stream, falls into the shallow water, and flounders with her head sinking under, unable to right herself. Afraid that she will drown, I rush over, lift her up by her feet and place her on the bridge. She just lies there quietly, the raw red wound of the torn wing painfully obvious. 
          What to do? In a flash, I remember the Bird Lady at Morningstar Farm who rehabilitates raptors. Years ago I brought two redheaded woodpeckers to her after I found them on the highway. The one with the broken wing survived and the Bird Lady was able to release it, but the one with the broken leg had been down too long. I feel a surge of hope that this duck, injured recently, might be rescued. But how to get the bird to her? 
          I'm afraid to just pick her up because she will struggle out of my hands. I figure I'll wrap the bird in my jacket for protection. But as I start to take it off, the duck flops off the bridge into the stream and disappears under the bridge. Now what?
          We play hide and seek for awhile, the duck popping out on the opposite side of the bridge from where I'm peering. Finally, I withdraw up the path for awhile. When I sneak back, she is huddled on the path on the far side of the bridge. When she sees me, she starts hobbling away into the brush and down the creek. I give up trying to chase her, feeling helpless to help her. 
          But I walk away feeling guilty that I didn't do enough to aid a living creature in distress. Her chances of survival are pretty slim. She's in shock from the wound, she can't fly and she can't dive for food. After I'm far from the bridge, it occurs to me that perhaps the humane thing to do would be to put her out of her misery. But I can't bring myself to do that.
          The next day I return with a towel and a box, but the only evidence I find of the Hooded Merganser is one small white feather on the bank of the stream.
          My wise friend says that the mind holds onto guilt, whereas the light of love just wants to enter through the back door of the heart and flood it with forgiveness. It will take some time, she says, so just stay open.

a room for men to rest

a room for men to rest --

deadwood around a live tree,

signs of an artist

Not far off the path in a little grove of trees on the west side of Bonnefield Lake, someone has cobbled together a little hut from deadwood piled up around the pillar of a live tree. Pasted on the trunk are little slips of paper neatly printed with words pertaining to relatives: father, mother, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, niece, nephew, lover. And on the ground is a collection of miniature watercolors with titles like "Knee on heart, I love them all," "Florescent Bulb," "Way," and below a faded sign advertising MEN'S RESTROOM BASEMENT, "a room for men to rest." It's certainly a cozy place to rest, with a couple of logs beside the remains of a fire in front of the hut, polka dots of sunlight pouring through holes in the grass roof, and a clear view of the lake. Yet how many people pass by on the path and don't even notice, let alone take time to rest in the little room?

spring at Bonnefield Lake

spring at Bonnefield Lake,

wild plum humming with bees,

couples everywhere

Early April but it feels like July, 88 F (31 C). I'm sweating as I walk around Bonnefield Lake after lunch. Passing a thicket of wild plum in bloom, humming with bees drawn by the sweet scent, I spot a pair of bikes lying on the path. Their owners, drawn by the water, are perched on the bank. Completely engrossed in each other, they don't even notice me passing by. A pair of ducks do notice me before I see them, flying off in a flurry of splashing water. And a pair of snapping turtles, sunning on a dead cedar tree a few feet from shore, slip into the water when I approach. 

back to a blue wall

back to a blue wall

a man in blue jeans reads

the morning paper

Early morning, Calle 8 Norte, half a block from the beach -- a man in work clothes, quietly reading his paper, looks up at a tourist looking back at him. The smiling tourist reflected in the glass door seems to be thinking, "What a colorful local character." The man's resigned expression seems to say, "La temporada turistica." 

still life with green oranges

still life with green oranges,

pineapple and three bottles

of Mexican beer

I imagine Gauguin or Matisse painting this still life -- a shiny aluminum pan piled with green oranges, one ripe pineapple and three bottles of Mexican beer arranged carefully against an orange wall and table on a street in Playa del Carmen.

a pair of gold bells

a pair of gold bells

in the white church tower below

the moon, above balloons 

Our first night in Playa del Carmen, we walk the main street, a pedestrian street running parallel to the beach. At one end, near the ferry dock, we pass a beautiful little church, Nuestra Senora del Carmen, with its twin golden bells lit up in the white triple arched tower. A wedding is underway inside, while outside a balloon seller hawks his wares and the veiled moon looks down on the white sand beach, the white church and the wide street full of people.

wads of wool roving

wads of wool roving

undulate across the sky

in voluptuous waves

Late March, for a breathtaking half hour the entire dome of the sky is covered with billowing blue-gray clouds rising and falling in waves. Altostratus undulatus form when the air above and below the cloud layer is moving at different speeds and directions, pulling, twisting and shearing the clouds into intricate, fast-changing patterns. Sometimes it looks as if the waves crest over the tops of trees, but this ocean of clouds is too high to be affected by mere landlubbers.