wordsfromanneli

Thoughts, ideas, photos, and stories.


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Brant Migration

The black brant are back from the coast of Mexico and California. These small sea geese are on their northerly migration to their nesting grounds, mostly in the  coastal areas of the Canadian Arctic.

The long daylight hours of the far north allow plenty of time for the young to feed on plants and insects that are so prolific there.

But right now in the early spring of the year, as these adult black brant take a rest from their travels here on Vancouver Island, they are selectively foraging on marine vegetation. They especially like eel grass and bits of sea lettuce or other greens. Many of them have their beaks in the sand, rooting out plants, and small bits of grit. At this time of year, just after the herring have spawned, the brant might also get the odd mouthful of herring eggs stuck to the seaweed.  Caviar and green salad. Gourmet dining.

The brant have a long flight ahead of them and they need to recharge their strength and stamina for the next part of their northward journey.  This is why they spend so much of their time feeding. They are limited in the availability of the food by the tides. On high tides the grasses and seaweeds are underwater and not as easily accessible, so the brant prefer lower tides when the plants are uncovered. They eat during the day, so they have to make the most of the low tide and eat while the table is set. Low tides at night don’t do them much good.

By the way, do you see one bird who doesn’t seem to belong? It is being tolerated nicely though.

The snow geese are doing pretty much the same thing, heading north to nest, and eating as much as they can before the next leg of their flight. The difference is that they are not as particular about what they eat, and will happily enjoy some grass roots meals.

Our brant numbers seem to be down from past years. I don’t know why that is, but those that are left are a precious sight to see.

Coastal communities have put up many signs for visitors at the beach not to disturb the brant. While these birds are here, it is not helpful to them to let dogs run on the beach. It disturbs the birds,  who then use up energy in flying out of reach of the dogs, before they can then resettle to continue feeding.

While I watched from a distance, I saw a young father take his daughter down to the beach and walk right up to the brant, pointing at them, obviously showing his little girl what wonderful birds these are.

But here is the result of his naive, misguided good intentions.

While I was there, I saw two young fellows go down to the beach to play frisbee, right beside the brant, disturbing them yet again. They could just as easily have played frisbee on the grassy park area across from the beach.

A nearby kiteboarder had sense enough to go along the beach a little farther so he didn’t upset the geese.

The Captain and I drove on a few miles up the road to check out another beach that often had brant on it. Beautiful as the beach was, not a bird was to be seen. Perhaps the landscape here allows the tide to come right in  much faster and doesn’t leave as much “brant food” exposed.

We enjoyed the empty scene for a while before continuing on the road home, happy to have seen the brant earlier in the day.

 


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Reflections of Love

The other day I finally got around to cleaning some of the windows. I wondered if Quentin would be at the front door even more enthusiastically than before, talking to his reflection, hoping this “friend” would come out to play.

Sure enough, he appeared in a short time and had a conversation with himself at the window next to the front door.

Then he hopped onto the railing and sunned himself. (By the way, he does have two legs. Maybe he’s just warming one leg in his feathers.)

I told him he’s making a mess of the railing. What if someone wanted to hold onto it to steady themselves as they walked down the steps? But he just looked at me incredulously and said, “Well, I have to go somewhere!”

Just look at his beautifully designed head. So many different feather sizes, shapes, and colours, all in perfectly arranged sets of patterns.

Quentin Quail is beautiful,

Still his search is dutiful,

Hunting for his long lost mate,

Lonely living is his fate.

 

Yet he visits at the door,

His reflection to adore,

Thinking this is Queenie Quail,

Though he once again will fail.

 

Pondering his solitude,

He does nothing to intrude,

Quietly he soaks up sun,

Waiting for his only one.


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A Different Drum

I’d been reading a book in my living room. The sun shone in through the window and I dozed off with its warmth on the back of my neck.

I woke to the sound of someone dragging a big metal appliance across the concrete outside the downstairs family room. Emma barked like crazy to tell me that someone was burgling the house.

I ran out onto the deck to see what was going on. I saw nothing, but I heard the noise again. Strange!

The metallic rattling came again and I looked up towards the sound.

A flicker was sitting on the top of the new flue to the gas fireplace.

 


Just listen to his drumming!


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Caviar, anyone?

This Vancouver Island beach is very popular at this time of year. The western gulls flock here literally by the thousands.

What’s the attraction?

It’s not exactly a pretty, touristy beach of white sand.

But the gulls know what they’re after.

Lunch is being served. The gull in the top left of the photo below has a beak full of caviar.

It’s herring time and the roe is all over the beach. Gourmet dining at its finest.

A word to the wise: if you are walking this stretch of beach at herring time, it might be a good idea to bring an umbrella even if it’s not raining. When the gulls get riled up and are wheeling overhead, some of them can’t always contain their excitement. Best to have that umbrella ready.


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Quentin’s Return

I may have mentioned that a few years ago we had so many quail here, they crossed our yard like a living carpet of quail, forty or more.

As more houses were built, cats and dogs and people have disrupted the quail’s natural habitat, and the fate of the quail population was doomed. In a few short years the quail died off. One lone survivor has hung on, all alone for at least three years.

You may have met Quentin Quail in one of my previous blog posts. https://wordsfromanneli.com/2021/04/11/quentin-quail/

He still is the loneliest quail I’ve ever seen. I thought for sure this past cold winter would have killed him, but even after deadly cold blizzards and bone-chilling north winds, he has survived.

As usual, he is looking for the friend he thinks he sees in the window by our front door. Even with the glass so dirty from the weather and from Emma’s nose prints, he must see his reflection in it and think it is another quail. My heart breaks for him.

 

“I just don’t understand why she won’t come out to play.”

I really hope Quentin is careful. These past couple of days I’ve noticed what I think is a merlin hanging around. I tried to get a picture of it today, but it flew to a nearby pole and the picture is not as good as I’d like it to be. But here he is, the potential quail killer.

I hope he finds a mouse or a rat to eat instead.

 


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Over- and Underachievers

Seems that when spring is near, the increased daylight hours spark something in chickens that gets them laying more. Some of the younger birds lay tiny eggs, and then they skip a day and lay a double-sized egg (usually with a double yolk). It takes a while to get it all sorted out and they start laying regular-sized eggs.

The people who own the free-range chickens where we get our eggs have a contented flock of hens. These chickens have the run of the yard and the family’s big black labrador retriever keeps an eye on them. The dog and the hens are good friends. She wouldn’t dream of harassing the chickens.

It’s a happy farmyard.

Some of the hens lay green eggs; others lay brown ones. At this time of year, the size difference in the eggs can be dramatic.

I’ve tried to arrange them so you can compare the sizes. One green egg and three brown ones are huge (I felt sorry for the hen’s bum). I put a normal-size egg next to the big ones for comparison, and then there is a small … very small … brown egg.

You may wonder what the speckled egg is all about. It is a quail egg – one that I’ve had for years and is blown out. Remember in the old days when we painted Easter eggs and put a pinhole in the top and the bottom of the egg? We blew on the one pinhole and the contents of the egg came pouring out of the other. Then the shell could be preserved without a rotting egg inside.

I put that quail egg beside the small chicken egg so you can see how tiny they are.

And that reminds me. I had a very special visitor yesterday. In my next blog I’ll tell you about it.


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Music for Valentine’s Day

“Sweetheart, I adore you. Give us a kiss.”

Oooh! She’s closing her eyes. I think it’s working.

“Come here, Bud,” she chirps.

Oooh! She’s whispering in my ear.

 

“What’s that, Biddy? You want me to sing you a love song?”

Sheesh! She sure is high maintenance. But my little Biddy is almost ready to say “yes.”

 

 

“Would you like me to play something … er … like accompany you on the pigiano?” asks Porky.

 

“Okay, here goes! … Hmm …  It doesn’t seem to be working.”

 

“I have to what? Open the lid?” Oops! “Of course! I knew that! I was just about to do that…. Hmm … I can’t seem to remember any songs.”

 

 

“Well, thanks for turning on the Budlight — I mean the light, Bud — and finding some music, but, ah … well … the truth is … no glasses.

No matter. Can’t read music.

Anyway, this doesn’t look like a love song.”

 

“Hey, Porky! Would you like us to accompany you? We’ve got a guitar, cymbals, and maracas. Come on. Let’s play. Just ignore that naked Cuban lady dancing behind us.”

 

“And we can help too. We’re the Mainzelmaennchen of German television ads fame. Let us show you. From left to right, you can see that we play natural instruments: the pot and wooden spoon, the coffee mill, the whistling kettle, the comb, the all-purpose whisk-like wooden spoon, and the pot-lid cymbals (watch your nose there, Fritz).”

“Aw-right!” says Porky. “Let’s jam! And please ask our audience to put their donations into that slot in my head. I’m banking on that.

A-one, a-two, a-three, a-four.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

 


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Happy Hummers

Hills bedecked in powdered rain.

Will we see green trees again?

Chilly mist drifts overhead,

Cools the hibernator’s bed.

 

 

Yet the valley down below,

Barely shows a hint of snow,

Filbert trees are flowering,

Wimpy folks still cowering.

 

 

 

Filbert flowers dangle plain,

Golden curtain, golden mane.

Hiding hummers, sheltered perch,

Safe from predators who search.

 

 

 

In the open on this twig,

In the sun I dance a jig,

Happy to be warm out here,

Catching rays of light so dear.

 

 

In the shade, my throat is brown,

Wait until I turn around,

I’m like lady hot pants pink,

Pretty special, don’t you think?

 

 

Bright pink plumage, yes that’s me,

Now I’m quite a catch, you see.

Don’t believe me? Yes, it’s true,

Sure as I can look at you.

 

 


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What’s Under There?

Photo courtesy of Pat Gerrie.

No, that is not a frozen lake beyond the tree line. It’s the northern end of the Okanagan Valley, seen from Silver Star Mountain Resort.

Imagine life going on under that massive fog in the valley. People are trying to drive to and from town, to buy groceries, fill the car with gas, visit with friends, pick up kids from school. They’re feeling their way through the fog, trying not to drive into the lake beside the highway. Doom and gloom, like being half blind when you’re right down there in it. Grope, grope.

And here is the fog over the Comox Valley. Below this fog is the salt water. Only boats are groping their way from A to B. Under this fog, the sea lions chase salmon while the salmon chase herring.

 

Eagles hover over unsuspecting loons, or scoters, or ducks, looking for a sickly one – perhaps one who had a hard time finding food during that last cold spell. They wait for a break in the fog to spy their lunch. Or, they might fly over unsuspecting birds who don’t expect an attacker from the mist.

The fog is scheduled to lift now that a new southeast system is moving in, but it seems that in a surprise about-face, the wind is forecast to bring us one more day of northern air and blow some snow flurries on us – just for a few minutes tomorrow.

 

Icy fog 

Droplets of drizzle,

Freeze my dog,

Muzzle of grizzle.

 

Blind and down,

My spirits are low,

Fog brings a frown,

Wish it would go.

 

Southeaster blows,

Fog drifts away,

Maybe it snows,

But just for a day.