Vi and I read our books in the cockpit tonight after dinner. Quijote was floating on glassy water under a clear, tinted sky with the sound of birds all around us.
Bootleg Cove is populated with several kinds of birds. They’re often more vocal than visible: the distinct, shrill whistle of a bald eagle perched somewhere in the treetops, the harsh croak of ravens among the trees, and the rattle of kingfisher along the shoreline were constant companions for our stay today. Listening to this chorus while we read our books, we were startled by a heavy flapping of wings above us. We looked up to see a juvenile kingfisher with his punkish crown of feathers looking down on us from from the top of the wind generator. We regarded each other warily for a moment. Finding threat where he’d hoped to find food, he was off again as quickly as he came.
That might be just as well: according to the bird book we have on board, the kingfisher “returns to it’s perch with a freshly caught fish in it’s bill, beats it senseless against the perch, then swallows it headfirst."
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