I opened the door…
and walked straight into a standing ovation.
Not for me, mind you.
Let’s not get carried away.
This was for them.
The air—absolutely loaded—with the metallic, bubbling, unapologetically loud declarations of Red-winged Blackbirds.
A chorus line of feathered egos announcing, with great authority:
“Gentlemen… the refuge is open for business.”
And there I was, still riding the emotional afterglow of a chance encounter with a Bald Eagle just moments earlier.
You’d think that would be enough for one morning.
Nope.
Nature doesn’t do “enough.”
It does encore.
I looked out across the fields—
the grasses, the vines, the thickets—
and they were everywhere.
Some balanced delicately on strands of switchgrass, swaying like trapeze artists waiting for just the right moment to dismount… or perhaps just showing off their balance to anyone with the good sense to watch.
Others took the high ground.
One in particular had clearly hired a publicist.
Perched atop a wild tangle of grapevine, he delivered his performance with all the subtlety of a Broadway opener—
voice cranked to eleven,
body puffed,
and those shoulders…
Ah yes.
The shoulders.
Cue the music…And now for a word from our sponsor.
Those blazing patches of color on his wings?
They’re called epaulets.
The red is the main event.
The yellow trim? That’s the supporting cast.
And together?
They are the avian equivalent of flipping on stadium lights.
These aren’t decorations.
They’re declarations.
“Mine.”
“This marsh? Mine.”
“That reed? Also mine.”
“You, sir, are trespassing on my wind.”
And here’s the magic trick—
he can turn them off.
Just fold the wings and—poof—
from flaming authority figure…
to sleek, black, inconspicuous shadow.
It’s one of the greatest on/off switches in the natural world.
Now…
Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Further along the path, another male had taken up residence on what looked like a bayberry shrub—
a wiry, tangled throne overlooking his newly claimed kingdom.
He wasn’t singing.
He was proclaiming.
Loudly.
Repeatedly.
With such intensity that I actually caught myself thinking:
“Is somebody going to help that bird?”
Spoiler alert:
No.
Because nothing was wrong.
Everything was exactly right.
This wasn’t chaos.
It was real estate season.
Each call, each flare of those incandescent shoulders, each dramatic pose—
a notarized claim on a temporary slice of earth.
“For the season,” they say.
As if they’re signing leases.
As if the marsh cares.
And then…
I kept walking.
And just like that, the noise began to fade.
The chorus softened.
The declarations diminished.
Until…
all that remained
was the quiet, rhythmic exhale of the ocean.
Waves.
Steady.
Patient.
Unimpressed.
How do you describe that transition?
Hmm.
It was like leaving a frat party in full swing…
and stepping into a monastery.
Well…
almost.
But the contrast?
Oh, it was real.
And as I reached Sachuest Point…
I saw something I have never seen before.
Something that prompted me to risk life and limb to get the shot!
But that—
is tomorrow’s story.
Stay tuned.
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