Guarding the Turf

I almost didn’t make it to work today. And when I did get in, my feet were still a bit damp. When it’s bright and sunny and the temperature is holding hands with the 50 degree mark on the thermometer—well, heading for that cramped office cubicle, dust-filled air and ringing telephones tends to lose its appeal.
I stopped at a wetlands spot in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. There had been some reports of a couple swans there so I needed to check it out. The swans were there—mute swans—along with 35 other species.
It was easy birding. I stood next to my car and just scanned the area. When I saw some duck activity I was glad that I’ve been procrastinating about getting the spotting scope out of the trunk for the past couple weeks. Sometimes it pays to be slow. Northern shovelers with their oversized beaks making bubbles in the water like kids, male hooded mergansers in regal splendor, a belted kingfisher hanging on to a wiggling fish large enough to make me envious.
And that’s the way I could have reported to work; dry feet, fresh air in my lungs and a head filled with thoughts of things other than what I get paid to do.
The cacophony created by the red-winged blackbirds felt glorious after so many months of winter silence. I should have been paying more attention. I never saw him coming until he was 15 feet away. It looked like two, blood-red eyes bearing down on me. When I got past the red I could see the yellow parentheses on the outsides of those eyes. Then the black body and, whoosh! the lethal beak. Whoa, partner, that was close. A rather upset red-winged blackbird landed on a nearby branch and was explaining something to me I really did not understand. To make his point, he came at me again. I got the message and moved and moved and moved with each pass until he was satisfied I was no longer a threat. He settled atop a stalk of last years’ fragmities to be sure I’d stay put. To get to my car, however, I’d have to cross through the turf in question. My choices were to venture through his territory and risk a peck on my bald pate, or take a slightly circuitous route that might do damage to my tasseled shoes.
It’s not the first time I went someplace with wet feet.