The Bridge of Celery Field
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| You can barely see the limpkin perched on the rail (near the center of the picture). |
Class on Tuesday drug on, like a slow turning wagon wheel on the long road West. The distance to a half past four was beyond reckoning, and my body felt stretched and twisted watching the clock tick slower, and slower, and s-l-o-w-e-r . . .
The instructor even kept us a few extra minutes! By five o'clock, though, I had arrived at the parking lot of Celery Field, an expanse of wetlands in Sarasota surrounding a large and out-of-place hill - perhaps a reclaimed landfill.
I waited my turn then dashed across the highway and began down a long wooden bridge that ended with a covered gazeebo out on the water. It wasn't long before a great blue heron swooped in front of me and landed at waters edge near the bridge. I watched it slowly stalk along the shore, pointing its neck and head out like a ballarina might point her toes, then step forward bringing its body underneath its head, curving its neck into an S shape. The heron moved closer and closer to the bridge, and as it slipped under, I softly walked down the bridge and began peering through the spaces between the floor planks hoping to catch a rare close-up.
As I was creeping along, a limpkin perched on the railing where I had been a minute before (see picture). It was small with brown with white spots. I watched him groom his feathers while other fowl flew above. The sun had begun to set now, and many birds were returning to roost. The limpkin let out a scream and suddenly I heard the bellowing of trumpets from three sandhill cranes flying low over the bridge. Far off in the sky, a flock of birds was heading inland. As I looked through the binoculars, I noticed their pink color and the distinctive silhouette of rosete spoonbills. Green heron in adult plumage flew out of the tall grass and landed in patches across the pond.
I began to suspect that my heron had snuck away from me, as I had walked the bridge a few times and did not spot it underneath. I jumped up onto a bench and leaned out over the railing. Our eyes met and widened, the heron and I, and I think both of us wanted to jump back in surprise. Well, he didn't wait long before disappearing under the bridge again. I heard great flaps and he shot out from under the bridge and landed in the distance.
I watched the a delicously orange sunset through Susan's binoculars. I wanted to drink it (the sunset, not the binoculars). The mosquitos began to buzz in my ears as the marsh became grey, so I pulled up my collar as I walked to the car. As I neared the land end of the bridge, I spotted my great blue heron in the distance still stalking the shoreline, barely more than a shadow in the darkness.
Perhaps I'll get up early on Friday, my last day down here, and visit the bridge as day breaks.
The instructor even kept us a few extra minutes! By five o'clock, though, I had arrived at the parking lot of Celery Field, an expanse of wetlands in Sarasota surrounding a large and out-of-place hill - perhaps a reclaimed landfill.
I waited my turn then dashed across the highway and began down a long wooden bridge that ended with a covered gazeebo out on the water. It wasn't long before a great blue heron swooped in front of me and landed at waters edge near the bridge. I watched it slowly stalk along the shore, pointing its neck and head out like a ballarina might point her toes, then step forward bringing its body underneath its head, curving its neck into an S shape. The heron moved closer and closer to the bridge, and as it slipped under, I softly walked down the bridge and began peering through the spaces between the floor planks hoping to catch a rare close-up.
As I was creeping along, a limpkin perched on the railing where I had been a minute before (see picture). It was small with brown with white spots. I watched him groom his feathers while other fowl flew above. The sun had begun to set now, and many birds were returning to roost. The limpkin let out a scream and suddenly I heard the bellowing of trumpets from three sandhill cranes flying low over the bridge. Far off in the sky, a flock of birds was heading inland. As I looked through the binoculars, I noticed their pink color and the distinctive silhouette of rosete spoonbills. Green heron in adult plumage flew out of the tall grass and landed in patches across the pond.
I began to suspect that my heron had snuck away from me, as I had walked the bridge a few times and did not spot it underneath. I jumped up onto a bench and leaned out over the railing. Our eyes met and widened, the heron and I, and I think both of us wanted to jump back in surprise. Well, he didn't wait long before disappearing under the bridge again. I heard great flaps and he shot out from under the bridge and landed in the distance.
I watched the a delicously orange sunset through Susan's binoculars. I wanted to drink it (the sunset, not the binoculars). The mosquitos began to buzz in my ears as the marsh became grey, so I pulled up my collar as I walked to the car. As I neared the land end of the bridge, I spotted my great blue heron in the distance still stalking the shoreline, barely more than a shadow in the darkness.
Perhaps I'll get up early on Friday, my last day down here, and visit the bridge as day breaks.
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