The Sad Life of a Fish

Well, birds continue to rain down onto Hideaway Pond. Two mallards must have flown in on the red eye. They were already there when we arrived on the porch for breakfast. Soon two pairs of wood ducks splashed down, followed at noon by another pair.

Wood ducks are at home on the ground as much as in the air and water. A pair of the little guys decided to leave the pond and take a stroll in the woods. Attached are a few photos of them doing so. They’re so beautiful they look almost unreal. One might think they could turn one over and find “Made in Taiwan” stamped on its little bottom. But I can assure you that they’re living, breathing birds. While Shari was photographing them, they spooked. They skittered into the woods and down the hill to the creek (or “crick” as we used to call them in western PA.) that borders our property. They were home in time for dinner.

Speaking of mallards, which I wasn’t, the male of the species, in spite of all his feathered finery and ceremonial woo, is not a very nice dude. As soon as the Mrs lays her eggs, he hit’s the road. Or the air, as it were. A deadbeat bird. Who woulda thunk?

And the great blue heron (or “Harry”, as my lovely bride has dubbed him) is back! Woe unto the fishes of Hideaway. We watched during lunch as Harry brutally speared and consumed two of our poor, benighted little finned friends. Very bad table manners if you ask me.

Ponder the sad life of a fish for a moment, if you will. It enters the world as a cold wet fertilized egg. Hardly an auspicious beginning. Having survived that, it hatches and becomes a “fingerling”. “Fingerling”! How ignoble a name is that? It then spends each winter in a stupor at the bottom of a dark frigid pond. Finally, on a bright sunny spring day it rises to the surface. Full of joy and optimism. The world is it’s moisture! It’s then suddenly speared, ripped from its happy wet home, quickly swallowed, and digested. Not even given time to say “Goodbye” to its mother. And it finally ends the entire process as a wad of bird poo. I certainly wouldn’t like it. Would you? I thought not.

A caveat. Attached are a couple pictures of Harry. They were taken from a distance of about 1000 ft. In spite of some earnest editing, They remain a bit out of focus. Or perhaps it’s indigestion. A late fish’s post mortem revenge.

Fast forward a day:
We were wakened last night by the sustained loud outcry of the female goose. We noticed this morning that she was off the nest and stayed off. Very uncharacteristic. I assume that her cry was that of a terrified mother goose as a raccoon, fox or some other hungry critter raided her nest and dined on her eggs. Some little goslings will never have the chance to grow up, graduate from goose school and march their daughter down the aisle. OK, geese don’t get married, but they do mate for life. Close enough.

Sadly, Mom and Dad Goose are now wandering around the yard together. They look lost. They are in mourning for their lost “children”. Geese will do that for the loss of a mate as well. I’ve seen it before.

Rewind a day:
So another day goes by in our modest little hidden sanctuary. The inexorable beauty and cruelty of nature. As the sky turned pink with its post sunset display and faded to twilight, I’d swear I heard the faint strains of “Taps” being played somewhere in the distance.
Right on time a shooting star from the Lyrids meteor shower streaked across a darkening sky.

OK, a little bit of artistic license on the shooting star. Mea culpa.

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