The migration is on in earnest now. Wave after wave of turkey vultures soar over the bleached cornfields, while the musical chips of the kinglets fill the bushes around my house. Out on the lake this week, huge flotillas of Canada geese honked up a storm (literally), and then when the wind died down again, the double-crested cormorants filed past for several minutes, their numbers scarcely diminished after two summers of official government "culling." Now it's the mergansers' turn - mostly Red-breasteds with a few Commons here and there - escorted by a squadron of gulls. But even as they leave, the juncos are arriving...and on it goes. Farewell to some, and welcome to others.
These shots aren't the best. It was very overcast, and I wanted a distance shot to try and show the numbers, and give at least some idea of the spectacle. You could have stood at the breakwall and turned 90 degrees to either side, and seen the same sight, hundreds and hundreds of birds, endless birds. And then, by some unseen or heard cue, they began to lift off, and in a few moments were gone.
The Cloud Messenger (Meghadūta) is a lyric poem by the respected Indian poet, Kālidāsa. The poem centers around a yaksa in exile. Longing for his beloved, waiting for him on a Himalayan mountain, he asks a cloud to take a message to her. The sights he tells the cloud it will see on its way make up most of the poem.
The idea of recording observations appeals to me. I thought The Cloud Messenger was the perfect title for a blog about the journey that we all make as we move through our days.
I'm a baby boomer who grew up dancing in the streets of Detroit during the classic Motown years, lived beside the Rocky Mountains for many years, now retired and living (and writing full time) in S. Ontario. I have one blog for rock 'n' roll oldies, and one for nature, poetry and life along the Lake.