(A Case Study in Suspicious Behavior at Little Neck Pond)
I was having a perfectly civilized morning.
You know the type.
Soft light.
Glass water.
Ring-necked ducks behaving like they had signed a non-aggression pact.
It was all very… PBS Nature Special.
Then—
WHOOSH.
Something came out of absolutely nowhere and ripped across my field of view like a shadow that had just been fired out of a cannon.
No takeoff.
No splash.
No warning.
Just… darkness with wings.
Now I don’t spook easily. Years behind a camera will do that. But this? This felt like I had just been buzzed by something that files its taxes under Empire, Galactic.
Then I saw it.
That telltale flash of yellow at the throat.
Ah yes.
The Double-crested Cormorant.
Or, as I now refer to him—
Darth Feather.
Let’s review the evidence.
Because if we’re being honest… this bird is not right.
Exhibit A: The Cloak
This bird is wearing black.
Not “fashionably dark.”
Not “earth tones.”
No—this is full-on villain wardrobe.
When a bird shows up dressed like it just stepped off the set of a space opera, you take notice.
Exhibit B: The Disappearing Act
Cormorants don’t take off like normal birds.
They vanish underwater… and then reappear somewhere else like they’ve mastered teleportation.
No ripples. No trace. No alibi.
You’re looking at calm water one second… and the next—
he’s behind you.
I’m not saying it’s the Force.
I’m just saying… I can’t prove it’s not.
Exhibit C: The “Sunbathing” Lie
You’ve seen them.
Perched like they own the place, wings stretched wide like they’re embracing the sunrise.
Very peaceful. Very zen.
Except it’s not.
They’re not meditating.
They’re drying out because their feathers soak up water like a sponge.
Which, by the way, allows them to dive deeper and hunt more efficiently.
So what looks like yoga…
…is really a tactical reset before the next underwater ambush.
Exhibit D: The Voice
You’d expect something sleek and shadowy to sound elegant.
Maybe a whisper. A hiss.
Nope.
They grunt.
Deep, guttural, borderline barnyard noises.
Somewhere between a pig and a disgruntled engine that won’t turn over.
Nothing says “apex underwater hunter” like sounding like you’re asking for corn.
Exhibit E: The Lifestyle Choices
They build nests out of sticks… and whatever else they find lying around.
Refined? No.
Functional? Questionable.
And occasionally—just to keep things interesting—they’ll sit on smooth rocks like they’re eggs.
Because why not?
At this point, I’m convinced they’re just keeping us off balance.
Exhibit F: The Diet (and Aftermath)
They swallow fish whole.
Bones, scales, everything.
Then later… politely cough up a pellet of the indigestible parts like it’s some kind of biological apology letter.
Owls do it too—but owls have the decency to look wise while doing it.
Cormorants look like they’re reconsidering their life choices mid-hack.
Exhibit G: The Flyby
Back to the moment.
This particular Sith Lord must have been perched in a tree in the distance.
Waiting.
Watching.
Timing his entrance for maximum dramatic effect.
Because when he came through, it wasn’t a flight—it was a statement.
Low. Fast. Silent.
A black blade slicing through the morning calm.
I barely had time to pivot, ditch the tripod stance, and shoulder the camera.
Click.
Got him.
Proof of life. Or… proof of whatever that is.
And just like that, the serenity was broken.
The ducks? Still floating like nothing happened.
The light? Still perfect.
But me?
I had just been reminded of one of nature’s greatest truths:
You can plan the shot.
You can scout the light.
You can compose the scene.
And then…
Something wearing a cape shows up unannounced and rewrites the entire script.
Naturally.
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