Arthur’s been patiently waiting through rainy and stormy days for me to take him for exercise. Yesterday, under blue skies, we took at walk at the Voice of America county park where red-winged blackbirds are in abundance. They are in the trees,
on the ground,
and in the bushes. I might have had a better photo or two if not for the small, white, untrained dog
who was straining at the leash,
tromping through puddles,
and drinking from them.
all the while I was trying to hold steady to catch a photograph of a field of Queen Anne’s lace, or a swallow in the distant—trying to use two hands on my cell phone camera while wearing the leash on my wrist, which continually jerked by said small animal attached to the other end.
Of course I had my sunglasses on, and the cell phone camera’s screen was dim from the sunlight, so I was shooting blind in many cases. “Just aim in the right direction and hope to catch something. Cropping might help.”
I have no idea what this bird is. I saw it fly, then land on a bench and move to the ground. In the flurry of transferring Arthur’s leash from my hand to my wrist, unlocking the iPhone, starting the camera and zooming in, this was the best I could do. Anybody know what this is with so few clues? It’s relatively slim, not full-bodied like a duck.
These black ducks made a striking picture on the small lake. I believe they are male American Coots, and that the brownish ones are the females. This is based on merely the color of their beak or bill. You can’t notice it from this professional photography, but they black ones actually had a lot of gray on their lower body if I’m recalling correctly. Feel free to set me straight.
Here’s a better picture. Better is a relative word.
I do not know how I managed to get this clear shot of the geese and goslings, but I’ll take it. Goslings always remind me of a song we used to sing when I was young called “Go Tell Aunt Nancy,” with the lyrics “Goslings are mourning (repeated three times) because their mother’s dead.” Actually, after some intensive researching online this morning to get to the bottom of this important issue, I discovered that the title is actually “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” and that the line we always sang, “She died last Friday, (repeated three times) with a pitchfork in her head,” should actually be: “She died in the mill pond from standing on her head.” A little less violent, but gruesome just the same.
Anyway, the next time I want to take bird photos at VOA park, I am going to take my DSLR with my new zoom lens, and a dog-walker with me.
See the lyrics and more information on the American Folk Song, “Go Tell Aunt Rhody.”
Christine M. Grote 