82. PROF GRAYLING MUIR – part 3

Part of a weekly series (Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5).

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Sitting in the sun, waiting for Curt Finks, Bronwyn sat, eyes closed, enjoying the unseasonal warmth. Sunday to Wednesday had been miserable – dark and cold. Shivering at the thought, she reflected that if it hadn’t been for the rain she could have believed that they were on the far side of the moon. She was thinking about Grayling Muir.

Trotting along the side of water, The Vixen’s great-great grandmother was looking for two things: shelter and trouble. Tussocky sedges provided some cover.  Thin as a rake, from her long journey south, she was desperate for something to eat. Thoughtful, inspecting a sign that read like a menu, she imagined her way through the list of birds available locally. The hen harriers looked fantastic, but she reckoned that she would have to make do with a wigeon or a winter thrush. That’s the way it goes.

Rounding the corner towards the hide she stopped suddenly. Resting, head against the wooden slats, Bronwyn, was snoring slightly, smiling.  Realising that this human was likely to be guarding this avian smorgasbord from predators such as herself, The Vixen was uncharacteristically hesitant. Retreating into the undergrowth, carefully noting the edge of the water, she bided her time.

Out on the still water, there was anxious chatter between the Brent Geese families. Observing the red tail protruding between the reeds, there was speculation about the intentions – and indeed the species – of this intruder. One theory that circulated rapidly, easily disproved, was that it was a red squirrel: nothing to worry about. Others thought that it was a cat. Older geese listened to the golden plover, with their superior vantage point: it was a fox. Ominously, it was starting to turn to face them.

Before taking off, the geese honked out a code that was intelligible to most of the bird species in the vicinity: panic. Beating their wings, legs spinning cartoon-style in (and then on) the water they seemed to be taking flight in slow motion. Bronwyn roused from her semi-slumber see what all the fuss was about.

Eventually the birds lifted off. Eyes unused to the glare off the water, Bronwyn lifted her hand to shade her face. Each goose that flew past blocked the sun out for a split second, the pattern repeating dozens of times: a flashing, flapping, feathery strobe. Epileptogenic. Evening fell and Bronwyn sat in a stupor, dreaming of Grayling Muir.

GANTOB

14 December 2023

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Reconstructed from a phone call with Bronwyn _____ (nee Gosling), December 2023, where she recounted events from one of Prof Muir’s visits sometime between 1988-1990

Cover photo of Winter Thrush, taken by Simon Johnson, is from BirdGuides website.

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If you have 400 words to submit, please get in touch. Ignore the deadlines, but please remember to provide an excuse for being late. If your blog is used in December 2023 you will receive a copy of the forthcoming book: GANTOB’s 2023: A trilogy, including your contribution. Good luck!