Have You Signed Our Register?

It strikes me; it would be a lot easier to keep track of who is coming in and who is checking out, on the bog pond, if these ducks would only sign the register. The hooded mergansers have all left, without a, by your leave, off to Maine or Canada perhaps to raise those darling children of theirs that I never get to see.

But the parade of guests continues at this aquatic B&B, with green winged teals arriving this past Saturday. Also just here on a weekend junket it seems; I didn’t see them today. When they are here, they prefer the slough that is in the middle of the cranberry bog itself, to the pond. A diminutive dabbler, they make the mallard look monster-like next to it. But what they lack in size, they make up for in general over-all-coolness, both in their flashy iridescent green side patch, with matching green streak on their head and, in the air, they are the Blue Angels of the duck world. Flying in formation with crazy twists and turns, climbs and dives as though a paying audience was watching beneath. I have never had them linger more than a few weeks before they too will make a run for the border. You would think they never got the word that we did away with the draft.

Ah, but the wood duck, the loveliest of all, bless his soul, considers this his summer destination. I should say bless HER soul, for she is the one that brings her mate back to her childhood scene and convinces him to raise the brood here. So for years now, I have been thrilled to see this pair of wood ducks return again and again to the bog. They dabble about on the edges of the pond, but at the first sign of trouble, (sadly, my dog) they lift off and always head back to a more secluded marshy wood behind an auxiliary bog. I have scanned the trees there but never had the luck of finding which one they chose for the nest. They are hole nesters, and sometimes choose a spot 50’ high. The chicks are so fluffy that they float down like little puffy parachutists. We have all perhaps seen that on nature shows, but I, at least, have never seen it in person. There are so *many* things to hope for in life aren’t there? To see such a thing: what a delight. The mallards, of course, are omnipresent. Too frequent a visitor to feel they would ever have to sign anything. But their behavior has changed markedly in the last few weeks. What looked like Spring Break in Acapulco for unattached males a few weeks ago, has settled down to marital bliss, with each pair heading off to their own little love nest in the various cranberry ditches, or the vernal pools that border the railroad tracks. They fly up unexpectedly as I pass, quacking that loud, no mistake about it, mallard quack and then settle back down when they see its only me.

The parade of guests will continue a little longer, but soon, those who are summer residents will claim their turf, and those that were heading for "Oh Canada", will have made it there and we wish them well with their endeavor to keep this world populated with ducks. And will they call in for reservations when they reverse the journey? Unlikely, but we will lay out the fresh towels all the same.