FLYday- Canada Geese

FLYday - Canada Geese

FLYday - A Foursome of Canada Geese. These geese flew so low that I could hear their feathers whistling.

"Force-'em" is what they do to geese (and ducks) to make  foie gras. Foie gras is made from hypertrophied goose liver. Domestic geese are force-fed by gavage. Their necks are hyper-extended upward. Then, a funnel is shoved down their throats and hideous amounts of food pushed into their bellies. The quantity of food is far more than would be consumed by geese in the wild or in captivity. The diet of corn boiled in oil causes subsequent fattening of the liver and a buttery taste favored by gastronomes. In about fourteen days, the liver grows so large that the goose often can not walk. They are never allowed to fly.

FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly.

Not In My Backyard - Wood Duck & Canada Goslings

A few weeks ago, I had noticed these Canada geese swimming in a private pond. The youngsters were at the sable-brown powder puff stage. I did take photos, but nothing I was really satisfied with as I couldn't get close enough.  Each time I drove by the pond, I gazed longingly toward the geese wishing I could get closer. I coveted that pond and the birds it hosted. The rushes on the pond edge are almost six feet tall now, a foot taller than I am; shooting through the rushes was a definite challenge. Between the pond and I was also a broad expanse of lawn. There was no way of sneaking up on anyone. Remembering what they taught me at Quanitco, I did think I could lie down on my belly and slither like a snake, camera aloft. However, whenever I went by, I was never in my bathrobe, so I never had on the right outfit for that maneuver. Plus, the home owner would probably have had a problem with that. I often saw fresh laundry on the line there, cars moved around and the grass unfailingly mowed, sure signs of occupancy. Then one day, the home owner himself was out by the pond edge throwing cracked corn to the geese! I leaped from my car and scampered across his lawn to introduce myself and tell him how much I enjoyed his pond and all the wildlife it supported. I admired his brilliantly green lawn. "You must really work at that lawn. It's so lush and green! My husband really loves good grass," I said, ingratiating myself. Men always like to hear that they've got a great lawn; he was  in fact, very pleased. He sheepishly admitted that he shouldn't feed the geese and ducks, but couldn't help himself. He told me he had dug the pond when he built his house in 1970. Clearly, he was a man who appreciated do-it-yourself initiative. He invited me to come sit by the pond any time I wanted to and for as long as I wished. He even invited me to use some of his lawn furniture. "Sure! Take a load off! Sit right there under that pine in the shade if you want to. Me and the misses don't mind one bit. Nice someone likes it."
      Walking back to my car, I noticed that the emerald green lawn was actually the work of the geese as much as the home owner. It was a mine field of fertilizing bird bombs the size of Cuban cigars! In spite of trying to avoid them, I stepped into a few which stuck like two part epoxy to my shoe. Knowing that my new found pond pal would have been watching me return to my car, I had to ignore the poo goo so it didn't look like I disapproved. Having used my good 'man material' by blowing smoke about his lovely lawn would have been completely waisted had I let out a squealing "Eeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuu!" while doing a grand Pas Du Chat. I decided that having Canada geese in my yard wouldn't be so great. Like deer and grandchildren, they are better appreciated in someone else's yard. 

There are five of these young geese. Their adult feathers are developed enough that you can definitely tell they are Canada geese. These geese are quite habituated to humans and were not shy about being near me. The parents did hiss at me a few times which was a little nerve wracking. A Canada goose standing on the ground is about at eye level to me.

Amongst the Mallards in the pond was this divine Wood Duck in all of his colorful glory. He was definitely wild and would have spooked to flight very quickly if I hadn't been stealthy.

 

I could not get enough of photographing them, either. Maybe I will have to take up my new friend's offer of the lawn chair.

The Mill - Red Fox, Flowers, Fungus & More

Where I take the eagle's nest photographs is a lumber mill which dates back to 1801. It's a family operation and has been in the same family since it started. The lumber for the flooring in our house came from this mill. Though still operational today, it's not as busy as it was back in the days of shipbuilding in Bath. The mill is on Winnegance Bay on the Kennebec River in Phippsburg. It sits on a point of land with the bay on the west side and a large, shallow marsh on the east. I have referred to it as 'The Magnificent Acre' in previous writings, though it is well more than a single acre of land. It's private property, but the land owner is an old acquaintance of my husband's and I've come to know him quite well myself through my wildlife photography adventures. I have posted photographs of a Woodchuck, snakes, foxes, flowers and loads of birds ranging from eagles to Pileated woodpeckers, wading birds and warblers, big and small all from this same parcel of land. The abundance of diverse flora and fauna  really is impressive. I am surprised at the numbers of people who go there to buy lumber who never notice a thing as huge and significant as the eagle's nest directly above them. Early one morning, I encountered a man there who had been scouring the woods for mushrooms. He returned to his car, where his Chihuahua was sleeping, with a fistful of Chantrelles or "Chicken Of The Woods," as some call them. He was secretive about his handful of delicacies, furtively looking downward and way, though he eyed the woods from where he had come, as he said "Yes, yes, Chantrells. I know a place up there..........." Reflexively, he cupped his hand over his find. He had not noticed the eagle's nest. There is a warehouse where lumber is stored and some heavy equipment. There's a lot of human activity, but the critters don't seem phased by any of it. The eagle stares down while the fox kits romp around on the log piles and snakes snooze on beds of reeds.  

(I nearly stepped on this Garter snake which was resting on the broken pieces of last year's Cat-O-Nine Tails.)

Canada Geese fly and light on Winnegance Bay and n the march on the east side. I've never seen other kinds of geese with them, but I always look to be sure. One day, I'll see something besides Canadas, I'm sure of it.

There are lots of wildflowers. This is Sweet flag or Bog iris. These flowers are on the very edge of the bay which is heavily salt mixed from the incoming tides. This shows that this type of iris is very salt tolerant.

This fox kit is one of the ones I posted about a month ago, now much larger. I saw its mother leap like a Gazelle over grasses into the brush right after I took this photo of her offspring.

Sleepless In The Burg

I often suffer from sleeplessness. Since I was young, thinking back as far as when I was no more than ten, sleep has been an elusive and unreliable event. My brain will simply not shut off and let me go, let me drift to the bottom of the dark pond called sleep. I consume an alchemist’s concoction of medications compounded to over ride my hot fired brain, but it does not always work. I simply get less sleep, sometimes none at all, awash in chemical stew that leaves me feeling hung over. Nights when sleep won’t take me, in advance I can feel the neuro-chemical process that kicks in, then assumes command of my brain. It’s like hearing the rumbling of an army off in the distance, thumping bombs, marching feet, rumbling trucks of an approaching front. And then I know – I will be awake, tortured for hours, restless, ill feeling and just waiting. Waiting for daylight or a miracle to let me go. I lie awake, listening to the night sounds of my house, my husband’s breathing, my dogs twitching legs. Sometimes, I do math problems. I pick a long number like 1,331,750 and divide it by 15.3. Over and over I start the problem in my head, but get lost along the way. Then I start over. I keep at it, in the dark, until I either reach the answer or I’ve tricked my brain into clicking off for sleep. There is no rhyme nor reason for my sleeplessness; I don’t have to have some anxiety or worry or event on my mind. It does not have to be the full of the moon. Though all of these things can jump start the toxic brain chemistry, often it is just nothing. Last night was one of those nights of torture.

---

SLEEPLESS

It’s a fight

Waiting, waiting

for the light,

for dawn.

So tired,

I can’t even yawn

And every hair

Annoys

And every sound

Pounds.

A clock

Strikes the hour

One, two, three

“Please!” I cry

For sleep

Or death,

Whichever will come

Before the rising sun.

                                                                                       Robin Riley Robinson

---

Sleep would be a golden goose.

Canada geese and goslings, Upper New Meadows River May 3, 2010

                                                                                                                                                          

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Domestic Geese, Phippsburg

The Outdoor Shower Season - Day Light Savings, Red-Winged Blackbird & More

This Canada goose has a mate and they have been coming to the shore right in front of the house every day. I think they may be scouting out a nesting site. They make a tremendous honking racket. When I've been on the phone I've been asked if there were geese in the yard as the caller could hear them.  I'm assuming they are a mated pair as I've heard her call him "Honey" and he calls her "Babe."
...............................................................................................................
It's official! This morning, I lurched awake and immediately, looked at the clock. It said it was quarter to eight; I had grossly overslept! Nonetheless, I felt, as my father would have said, shot out of a canon. What was going on here? What was going on was that for my brain and body, it was actually quarter to seven. David, in his state of glee over Day Light Savings, had leaped from bed before daylight and made busy changing all of the clocks. He has drained the anti-freeze from his outdoor shower and had his first of the season outdoor eye opener. It's thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit and the wind is blowing thirty-five miles per hour. He is prancing around, whooping and hollering that I should try it, "It's exillarating!" He shouts. "No thank you," is my polite subdued response. There are primroses and crocuses blooming in my gardens, but they don't look enthusiastic to me. They are healthy enough, but they don't look like they really mean it. They don't look like they want to be out of bed this early either. It is official, though. Spring is here even if we get a foot of snow, which we could. The lists of projects are being compiled, the lawnmowers are being tuned, blades sharpened and the migratory birds are arriving. There will be no peace in the Robinson house until November.

                                                                  Northern Cardinal in all of his glory. He has a girl friend here, too. Even pigeons are pretty if seen in the right light.

This Cedar Waxwing was one of twenty feasting on rose hips on the Popham Road yesterday. I looked, there were no Bohemian Waxwings in the bunch. A reader told me that I had erred in my previous post about the Black Guillemot. I had said that they turn white in the summer, which is not true; they turn black. The good news is that meant the one I photographed had molted to its summer plumage about 75%, a sure sign of spring.
 
This is a Red-winged blackbird. Its epaulets are concealed. It does have bright red under the scapulars, the median coverts. They show the red in flight and when they are flexing the pipes for girls and to impress other guys. They are very migratory, so it's a sure sign of warm days to come.

Last Call - Geese Going

Since I was a little kid, I've had a one sided love affair with Canada geese. I know a lot of people who hate them because they are prolific poop machines. They quickly foul up small ponds and shore fronts and turn golf courses into land mine fields. Each goose lays a breakfast-link size roll of dark green doo amounting to one to three pounds a day. The droppings carry bacteria harmful to humans, so keep your hands out of your mouth. Additionally, the droppings are very slippery. Stepping on it can result in a broken ankle and you know where you'd be falling if that happened. Things would no doubt, go from bad to worse. Populations of the Canadas are growing enormously, too. They are protected under the 1918 Migratory Bird Treaty Act (MBTA), so it's a felony to kill them. If they take a shine to your golf course, you're cooked, not your goose. All you can do is drive your golf cart around and scream and yell. Keep in mind when you do that, that when geese are alarmed, guess what? They poop. Many flocks of them no longer hede the urge to migrate, either. Here in Totman Cove resides a flock that now is about fifty strong, nearly double that of a year ago. There is open water here all winter, so they stay. I still think of them as harbingers of spring, though. I listen, as my father taught me to do when I was young, for their calls and think, "Ah, spring at last!" There is still magic in hearing them far above me, often in spring fog which seems to hold their sound. And in the fall, I feel sad when I see the skiens  rippling across the sky headed south. A V-ribbon undulating away in advance of snow makes me hunch my head into the neck of my jacket and shiver, even if it's not yet cold. These geese weren't flying out of town, though. They were just headed to the local golf course.

Goose, Gander And In Between

These goslings aren't downy, bitty babies anymore, so I guess that makes them teenagers. They can't fly nor are they yet trying to do so. Vigilant and protective Mom and Dad ushered them into the water quickly when they realized I was there. I wanted to get closer for better shots (always!), but when I started off the road toward the marsh I was suddenly up to my neck in Poison Ivy! That will teach me to venture from the confines of my car! I picked a tick off myself, too. Fortunately, I was fully clothed for once.