Kingfishers
Down by the cove, late afternoon. The tide is running out, which means that each moment the water is shallower, and any hapless fish still in it has less and less room to hide. Low tide is a good time to fish, but not a good time to be fish.
Someone who's interested in this distinction is the belted kingfisher (Megaceryle alcyon) who lives in our cove with his mate. He's a biggish bird, about a foot long, from poll to tail. He has a thick neck and a rather comically big head, with a wild, rakish crest on top. Beneath his chin is a clean wide white collar, and below that a sort of blue jabot, over a spotless white shirt front. Everywhere else he's a steely blue, though his wife has chestnut markings on her breast. He has a long, thick, pointed no-nonsense beak, which my bird book calls "daggerlike."
The kingfisher's Greek name, Alcyon, refers to two things in English: "halcyon blue" a bright kingfisherish hue, and "halcyon days," a peaceful, cherished time. Both derive from a Greek legend about Alcyone, the daughter of Aeolus.
Alcyone was the wife of Ceyx, and they were very happy together - so happy that they called each other Hera and Zeus, in imitation of that most celebrated couple, the king and queen of the gods. The gods took offence at this, as always, and Zeus threw a thunderbolt to sink Ceyx's ship and drown him. Poor Alcyone, maddened by grief, threw herself into the sea. Having destroyed them, the gods (famously poor at making up their minds) took pity on the devoted couple, and transformed them into loyal pair-bonding birds who live along the shore. Traditionally, the female kingfisher laid her eggs during the seven day period around the winter solstice, a time when there were no storms: the calm, halcyon days.
Our kingfishers stay in the cove all summer, flying from tree to tree, never far apart. They're not hard to spot. Unlike the silent great blue heron, who achieves a zen-like invisibility while he hunts, the kingfisher seems to think that fish have no ears. He sounds like a typewriter, giving off a long, rapid, mechanical rattle, usually in flight. He perches near the water, watching for prey. When he sees an unwary fish, too close to the surface, the kingfisher descends in a swift bold swoop.
Just now I hear a loud splash and I look up to see him flying back to his perch on a scraggly white pine. Usually he sits still, but now he shifts back and forth, head twitching, his ragged crest sticking up in points like a punk-rocker's. Arcing from his beak is a long silvery curve: quite a big fish, held firmly in that dagger-like bill. The fish squirms, protesting. He feels a mistake has been made. He still has a chance, and if he can get the kingfisher to drop him now he'll fall straight into the water and swim away, safe. He twists violently, flashing in the sun. The kingfisher holds him still. He can't risk opening his beak to get a better grip because in that instant the fish might squirm away in a daring aerial escape. The fish struggles, the kingfisher shifts from foot to foot, his bill clamped shut. Every second the fish is out of water brings him closer to not moving at all, so the longer the kingfisher stays still, the better his chances. The fish moves a lot, bucking and glittering: the more he moves, the better his chances.
Suddenly the kingfisher stretches his neck out and bobs his head violently; the fish vanishes. The kingfisher bobs some more, his head jerking, at some interior turmoil. Then he shakes himself all over and twitches his tail. The silver fish is gone. He is now in a different place. If he is still protesting, it no longer matters.
The kingfisher sits upright, jerking his tail briskly as though proving a point. Then he leaves his branch, swooping down low across the water, toward another tree, trailing his long rattling cry.
Someone who's interested in this distinction is the belted kingfisher (Megaceryle alcyon) who lives in our cove with his mate. He's a biggish bird, about a foot long, from poll to tail. He has a thick neck and a rather comically big head, with a wild, rakish crest on top. Beneath his chin is a clean wide white collar, and below that a sort of blue jabot, over a spotless white shirt front. Everywhere else he's a steely blue, though his wife has chestnut markings on her breast. He has a long, thick, pointed no-nonsense beak, which my bird book calls "daggerlike."
The kingfisher's Greek name, Alcyon, refers to two things in English: "halcyon blue" a bright kingfisherish hue, and "halcyon days," a peaceful, cherished time. Both derive from a Greek legend about Alcyone, the daughter of Aeolus.
Alcyone was the wife of Ceyx, and they were very happy together - so happy that they called each other Hera and Zeus, in imitation of that most celebrated couple, the king and queen of the gods. The gods took offence at this, as always, and Zeus threw a thunderbolt to sink Ceyx's ship and drown him. Poor Alcyone, maddened by grief, threw herself into the sea. Having destroyed them, the gods (famously poor at making up their minds) took pity on the devoted couple, and transformed them into loyal pair-bonding birds who live along the shore. Traditionally, the female kingfisher laid her eggs during the seven day period around the winter solstice, a time when there were no storms: the calm, halcyon days.
Our kingfishers stay in the cove all summer, flying from tree to tree, never far apart. They're not hard to spot. Unlike the silent great blue heron, who achieves a zen-like invisibility while he hunts, the kingfisher seems to think that fish have no ears. He sounds like a typewriter, giving off a long, rapid, mechanical rattle, usually in flight. He perches near the water, watching for prey. When he sees an unwary fish, too close to the surface, the kingfisher descends in a swift bold swoop.
Just now I hear a loud splash and I look up to see him flying back to his perch on a scraggly white pine. Usually he sits still, but now he shifts back and forth, head twitching, his ragged crest sticking up in points like a punk-rocker's. Arcing from his beak is a long silvery curve: quite a big fish, held firmly in that dagger-like bill. The fish squirms, protesting. He feels a mistake has been made. He still has a chance, and if he can get the kingfisher to drop him now he'll fall straight into the water and swim away, safe. He twists violently, flashing in the sun. The kingfisher holds him still. He can't risk opening his beak to get a better grip because in that instant the fish might squirm away in a daring aerial escape. The fish struggles, the kingfisher shifts from foot to foot, his bill clamped shut. Every second the fish is out of water brings him closer to not moving at all, so the longer the kingfisher stays still, the better his chances. The fish moves a lot, bucking and glittering: the more he moves, the better his chances.
Suddenly the kingfisher stretches his neck out and bobs his head violently; the fish vanishes. The kingfisher bobs some more, his head jerking, at some interior turmoil. Then he shakes himself all over and twitches his tail. The silver fish is gone. He is now in a different place. If he is still protesting, it no longer matters.
The kingfisher sits upright, jerking his tail briskly as though proving a point. Then he leaves his branch, swooping down low across the water, toward another tree, trailing his long rattling cry.
Labels: Kingfishers
posted by Roxana Robinsonat
12:58 PM 0 Comments
