by Kurt Zuelsdorf

Change occurred today on Clam Bayou in the form of heavy fog that sent sheets of white  across the bow of the kayak.  Without the scissors of the sun to cut away the veil, it hid every reflective image from above.   No shadows.   No direction.   I just drifted with the outbound current and listened to the oaks drip melodic thugs of moisture onto the dry sea grape leaves below.

The great migration to the North is at hand for the “real” snowbirds.  The swallows, willits, loons & bay ducks milled around like people in an airport waiting for a flight.    The white pelicans readied themselves for the long flight, perhaps back to the Horicon Marsh in Central Wisconsin where they feed on huge schools of carp.  They remind me of the professional business travelers as they wait for departure - cool, calm, collected and in their finest white outfits. Others looked more like I do in the airport – nervous, fidgety & jumpy, wondering if I should eat something.    A marbled godwit reminded me of the foreign traveler with a long, snooty bill.  Standing alone he kept to himself and watched the whirlwind of travelers traversing the South pass.

The gulls, like most dedicated, diligent gate attendants, were willing to answer even the most annoying questions from a little blue heron that seemed to have lost his way near the luggage conveyer - an endless school of baitfish that came out of a tunnel, rotated around the oyster bar then disappeared back into the mangroves.   From a nearby shore a Mockingbird was preaching, and no kidding it sounded like –  ”Many bags look alike…”     Occasionally a childish, noisy egret would run to belt, flap his wings and squawk in frustration.  He disrupted everyone in line until his prize was caught or until the gulls swooped in and shooed him away from the front of the line.
Right on schedule the Black Skimmers were called to the tarmac and cleared for takeoff. I n perfect formation cutting through the fog a flock of at least 50 plotted a course toward Gulfport beach escorted by a dozen plovers - daily commuters you know.

I missed the early departure of our winter artists - the Brown Pelicans.  They  must have taken the red-eye  to the flats and islands of the region. I’m sure their beaky luggage was tightly packed with fishy delights for the trip.  They were kind enough to leave their artwork plastered on the south wall of mangroves, but like the frost of the North their white impressions will slowly drip into the swirling outgoing tide.

A birder named Charlie from D.C. moved with the frost line too, pausing briefly in the bayou for a peak.   I don’t think he’d mind me relating him to this classy bunch of travelers do you?  He disappeared in the mist with bird book in hand followed closely behind by the  Pie-billed Grebe parking attendant that kept things moving in perfect order.

Today I heard the tropical winds from the South whispering to the birds – “Time to go, time to fly. Fly with me on the grace of my currents and together we’ll free the frozen world. Time to go, time to fly to a place where the nests on treetops drip with thawing dew. Let my currents carry you…time to go, time to fly and together we’ll watch the fog chase the frost away.”

WATER MONKEY STAND UP PADDLEBOARD WELCOME SUP