His Majesty, the Grackle!

 

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ink, charcoal

03-22-21-grackle
pastel, ink, charcoal

05-16-18-grackle
ink

05-24-20-grackle
ink

06-02-17-grackle
ink, charcoal

10-29-18-grackle
charcoal

Exciting Eagles

On a whim, I grabbed my bulky binoculars and left the house to go to my favorite early morning drawing spot, a dam across the Charles River in South Natick. So, in addition to my layers of clothing and winter boots, hat and gloves, two pads of paper and a pocket full of ink, brushes and assorted chalk, charcoal and pencils, I had the field glasses bouncing on my chest. And a face mask for the pandemic of course.

In the course of this habitual walk, I glimpsed a large bird for an instant in the sky. My view was obscured by a few rooftops. Maybe it was a hawk or a crow. I continued to the park near the river. As I entered the stone gateway I saw a raptor in a tall willow tree. It was definitely not a hawk; it was a bald eagle. I made two drawings of it as it sat there, it's back to me swivelling it's head around from time to time.

After about ten minutes of this proper, sedate behavior (me drawing, the eagle ignoring me) the eagle rotated forward off its perch and swooped over the dam toward me and over the bridge to the river beyond. I was fumbling, trying to train my binoculars, take a photo and put my art materials down… at the same time all in about two seconds!

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I turned to look where it had flown and saw a merganser come rocketing upriver over the bridge from precisely the same spot the eagle had disappeared. The frantic bird was followed by the eagle itself which carried a second duck struggling in its talons. Flapping heavily and deeply, the eagle flew over the island and dam and landed on the opposite icy shore of the river several hundred yards away. I put the binoculars to use.

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The eagle proceeded to reposition itself and it's prey several times before it settled into a vicious and efficient plucking. White feathers from the dead merganser, like kicked snow, were flung into the cold morning air. Every now and then the eagle would extract a dark stringing blob of muscle or entrail. This was breakfast. It stayed about an hour and seemed to eat more slowly. At one point it waddled to the ice's edge and took a drink of water.

I'd been out for several hours and was getting cold. I really should get home.  But I didn't want to leave before the eagle did. I compromised, if you can call it that, by walking across the bridge to the picnic area among the tall pines on the opposite bank closer to the carnage.

All the while, vegetarian muskrats continued to harvest aquatic roots and eat them on the edge of the ice close to where I now was. Shielded by some riparian trees and shrubs, I was about 80 meters from the eagle. Geese paddled by.  A pair of swans hassled and pecked the muskrats. Even other mergansers (a different species) bobbed and frolicked in the frigid water. Life went on and that included the ghastly repast nearby.

My toes were now numb and I hadn't had breakfast myself. I packed up my supplies. I blew on my cold fingers and stamped my feet. And then a second bald eagle arrived, wheeled above and joined the first one. It seemed a bit larger and its feathers a bit darker. It's creamy white head had an authoritative bearing. The eagle which had caught the duck, feeling magnanimous perhaps, stepped aside and allowed the newcomer (it's mate?) to pick over the carcass. She found some good things and flew off upriver, into the trees and out of sight.

I came back the next day and after drawing twigs and ducks for a little while, the eagle returned to see if there were any morsels left. It left without stopping really. I waited for a few more minutes and was encouraged when I saw the assorted ducks becoming agitated and alarmed. Soon enough, the eagle powered high above the river, spooking us all for sport and drifted over the library and downriver. I haven't seen it since.

It's taken a few days to get over the excitement but I've become satisfied with sightings of mallards and woodpeckers. Even seeing the icicles melt and grow in this fickle time of year has its pleasures.