James is a freelance ecologist and Chartered Environmentalist, presently living in Northamptonshire, always out in nature and sometimes writing about his observations and wildlife encounters.
Gullwing Hour
No sooner has the sun dipped below the ash-wood skyline, does a broad whiteish tide of gulls come into view; v-shape-drifting, pylon-high, silent wave upon wave over the spacious waters of a gravel-pit lake. A little shy of the lake’s western edge, the flock swells as it switches mode; the birds begin to wheel above a chain of islets. Gradually there becomes a deep eddying movement of gulls; individuals peel off and slowly spiral down to a backdrop of shoreline willow trees, moments earlier clipped by the last dregs of winter sunlight — a fiery ribbon briefly became of this twiggy fringe, and the feeder stream snaking behind. The islets are soon crowded to capacity, at which point the birds spill over onto the water, breaking its glassy surface. Black-headed, herring, lesser black-backed and common gulls, all here to roost as one collective body. It is a flock of ages, too, with first, second and third-winter-plumaged birds narrowly distinct. Perhaps the prettiest, classiest gull in attendance is the adult common; neat and gentle looking, with dove-like grace. Inexplicably gorgeous is the shade of grey across the back — soft like a raincloud, and pleasing in contrast with the seaspray-white most of elsewhere. The domino-pip-like wingtip markings, visible at rest, complete a fine livery…though, with all flighting birds having now touched down, this beauty is obscured in a tightly-packed, fidgeting mass. Quick minutes pass. Mist pockets begin to form, and darkness gathers, to a chorus of dissonant shrill voices.
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A lovely piece of writing, sensitive and evocative. I live by the sea, with various gulls overhead, a couple nesting on the chimney, and fulmars nesting in cliffs, and I can visualise the pictorial and auditory descriptions in the article. Thank you.