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Until now, the only ones I have seen have been pink. Apparently, that colour is diet related but I prefer to think that this Caribbean variety has just “lucked up” with their brilliant orange plumage.
It is early morning, and this group are still waiting for the sun to warm the day before stretching their long necks. It’s the first time that I’ve had the opportunity to combine my brand new camera with my long lens. I’m enjoying the opportunity of playing with the colour of, and lackadaisical start to, this bird’s day.
But most of all, I like the fact that it is entirely acceptable to call a group of flamingos, a flamboyance.
Icy conditions may have temporarily closed the duck season but the hunters remain undeterred. There are always geese this time of year and most landholders are happy to see them gone. But so far today, they have proven elusive.
Unexpectedly, the group stumble upon a gaggle 10,000 strong in plain sight. Behind a levee, they stop the truck and carefully load their weapons before beginning a stealthy approach. Slowly, they make their way along the earthen wall, peeking over its lip to spy their quarry’s position.
Finally happy with their proximity, they crouch low against the frozen ground. Calm, steadying breaths, billow in the cold air. The centre man raises his hand and silently signals…three…two…one.
As a team, they rise and begin to fire. The gaggle take flight as the noise of discharging firearms and cries of the struck fills the air.
The hunters approach their prizes. There are sixteen down. It has been a productive day after all.
Like most young animals, juvenile squirrels are infinitely capable of finding ways into spaces they aren’t wanted: one manages to secure passage into the roof of my in-law’s home. Aware of it only when the trap begins to rattle against the ceiling boards, I offer to escort the intruder away.
I trudge my way through melting snow and ice to the designated place for its release. Opening the trap, I have a hard time motivating my young colleague from the cage. Finally, it emerges, peering suspiciously at the snow. No sooner do its tiny feet hit the cold surface, than it leaps onto my shoe and scampers up the leg of my trousers. Before I know what has happened, it is sitting on my shoulder, as far away from the snow as it can manage.
Reaching up to grab him with my glove, it escapes my outstretched hand around my back and into the safety and warmth of my jacket pocket. I look around. This has got to be a set-up. Someone must be watching me with a video camera. I’m sure of it.
There is no way I can get it out of my pocket in these gloves. With a billowing sigh of steam, I remove the glove on my left hand and reach in. Its fur is softer than I think it should be and as I wrap my fingers around it, I hope for the best. Fortunately, it does not bite me and with some gentle manipulation, I pull it free.
As it squirms, I release the juvenile and watch it bound across the snow into the safety of the forest. That did not go according to plan. I doubt I’ll be so eager to volunteer next time.
It is closing on mid-January and the temperature has hovered around zero degrees (Celsius) for the last couple of days. At nine this morning, conjecture reigned as to whether or not it would come today. By lunchtime, those who had denied the possibility, appear to be right.
Escorted to Fletcher farm early in the afternoon, I pad around its frozen paddocks, taking photos of naked pecan trees against the stark sky. It is then, that it starts to fall. Hurriedly, I finish taking photos of the orchard and return to the warmth of the laundry house.
Well into the evening, the snow persists. It is not heavy, but it has successfully begun to conceal the world I see out the windows of the shack. My eye is drawn to a painted birdhouse. I’m sure its colours brighten as the landscape around it pales. That thought makes me smile.
The temperature is only marginally above freezing point at the Little Rock zoo. Most of the exotics are curled up, asleep, and dreaming away the cold. The giraffes sulk around their enclosure, banished from their pens so that they can be cleaned. The elephants are out, and the Malay tiger pokes gingerly at the pool that has frozen over.
Perched on a dead limb, under the shade of an awning, one resident patiently watches. It is against the law to keep this magnificent raptor captive. But this bird of prey is not a victim of containment. Injured, it cannot fly. Despite this liability, it continues to sit proud, contemptuously surveying those few that amble by on this icy morning.
With clear, blue skies above, and no roof to keep it contained, there is irony in the fact that it does not peer upward to freedom. Instead, its gaze remains focused upon movement on the ground. Until it has recovered enough to take wing again, its vigilant eyes practice their art.
