Even though last week we quite regularly had a couple hundred geese in the cornfield behind our place, I headed out to the Big Sioux River, west of here, because if we had a couple hundred here, there'd be a couple thousand there.
And there was. No end to the cacophony. How many doesn't appear to make much difference--where two or three or gathered there's a hootenanny. What a noise. I hadn't really thought of getting pictures. Lots to see but nothing at all close.
A strange thing happened. Two men came up river in a boat--with a little motor. The river was a bit of a minefield, full of ice chunks floating down, although most of the the flotilla didn't appear life threatening.
A little skiff. I'm not kidding, a little jon-boat putting in late February.
I hadn't even seen the gaggle of geese who came up off the river when these guys came up, but they came right at me. My Olympus turned into an assault rifle. I shot and shot and shot a whole bunch embarrassing pics. But one is so sharp it makes me look like I know what I'm doing.
I happened to be in the right place at the right time--that what's did it. And sheer, dumb luck.
It was nice to be there this morning, in the middle of all the noise, the sky laced with endless echelons of migration, but I didn't take any other pictures of waterfowel.
The world is largely colorless in late February; it leaves light but light. But that can still be a joy.
Down the river a ways, all of those ice chunks--and far bigger ones--were stacked up. No flooding, but it was strange to suddenly come on a swath of river where the only current was created by streams little bigger than rivulets. Otherwise, thing were still sealed. Sort of.
Last but not least--this sweet reminder of life beyond the grave. Nothing beautiful about the light or the color; nothing remarkable about image. No matter, 'twas the highlight of the morning. Better'n a stubborn groundhog anyway.
