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.A feeling of possibility, even of romance, seemed to beckon to him on the warm night air, but it was flimsy and easily lost.He went inside, and when he slept, he was unaware of his dreams.He and his father began their mornings by squeezing oranges and brewing coffee.Officially they were nearing the end of the hurricane season, and the weather of the succeeding days was as tranquil as the first, sunny and warm.Bryce accompanied his father on visits to properties for sale.Always attentive, he collected the real estate agent's handouts, followed the tours obediently, and only offered his opinion afterward if Russell asked.On the second morning Russell persuaded his son to go fishing.However, Bryce didn't enjoy it.He wasn't adept at casting, and he grew bored and hot, standing on the pier, waiting for the fish to bite.He caught nothing, but Russell pulled in a yellow-tailed mackerel.Bryce wouldn't have admitted it to his father, but, while he had no qualms about eating fish, he didn't like to see them struggle in vain, and to watch their shimmering iridescent colors grow pale and dull in death."I've had enough," he said, resting his pole against the railing of the pier, "but don't let me stop you.""Are you all right?" asked Russell, looking at him."You seem a little peaked.""I feel dizzy, but it's probably just the heat.""But it's not that hot.It's not yet eighty.""I guess it's the sun.Don't worry about me.""If you say so." Russell sounded relieved."I'll tell you what.This evening at sunset I'll take you to the wildlife refuge.You'll like that.One drives through it at one's leisure.It's very interesting.Your mother loves it."It didn't strike Bryce as much of a recommendation, but he refrained from saying so.* * *The car inched along the wide road of white sand, with water and low, dense clumps of mangroves on either side."We're on a dike separating the salt water from the brackish water," explained Russell."Keep your eyes peeled." A bird guide and a pair of binoculars lay on the seat between them."What have we here!" Russell exclaimed, as he pulled over and came to a stop."That's an Anhinga.You can see why it's also called a snake bird."It took Bryce a while before he noticed the thin black neck of a bird moving like a periscope through the greenish, opaque water.The body was submerged, so that the outstretched neck did look like a snake.He stared at the bird's beady eye and wondered what it would be like to see on either side of one's head.He couldn't tell if the bird was really staring back at him or not.With a loud beating of its wings, the Anhinga suddenly flew up in the air.It was black and much larger than Bryce had thought.It landed heavily on top of some mangroves nearby, which swayed under its weight, and the sun through the shifting leaves cast wobbly fragments of light on the sluggish water."Watch," said Russell in a voice so low it was almost a whisper."It will spread out its wings to dry."It happened as he said.The Anhinga's wings, spanning four feet across, were like a lustrous black and white fan.Gradually, the mangroves ceased to sway.As the bird perched motionless, it seemed no longer an ungainly creature, but a vision of elegance.Russell continued, "It spears fish with its bill.Though it swims under the surface, it secretes no natural oils in its feathers to repel water, as a duck does, and so it must dry off in the sun periodically."Though his father's tone was more didactic than his uncle's had been, Bryce was willing to be enlightened."I never knew you were so interested in waterfowl," he said.Sounding defensive, Russell replied, "When you're down here and they're all around you, you can't help but take an interest."Bryce thought to himself, He's as sensitive as I am.I guess that's where I get it from."I didn't mean it as a criticism," Bryce hastened to explain."Quite the contrary.It's nice to discover that you have all this knowledge I had no idea about.""It's hardly very extensive," said Russell, but he seemed pleased.They continued slowly down the refuge road, stopping every several hundred yards to view the birds, whose names and habits Russell continued to describe until Bryce began to know them.They got out of the car to venture onto a boardwalk built through the mangroves which led to a lookout over a wide shallow marsh.To Bryce, the mangroves' roots looked like thick, tangled gray wires arching out of water stained dark brown by the mangroves' fallen leaves.The tide was low, and some of the exposed roots were encrusted with oysters.In the silence he could clearly hear the scuttling crabs, and when he looked closely he could see dozens of them crawling insect-like in the gloom of the mangroves.The scene was so primeval that he couldn't help shuddering.Far away, on the distant mangrove islands across the marsh, were white specks of birds, which Russell, his vision aided by the binoculars, identified.At the edge of the marsh, not ten yards away, a Great Blue Heron stood on one leg, so vigilant, grave, and still that they nearly overlooked it.Soon they came to the observation tower in the watery heart of the refuge.The sky was turning pink, and its pastel reflection tinged the water below.Pale blue and pale pink, sea and sky seemed almost to meld.Here was so much activity, so many varied birds congregating, that Bryce was captivated and forgot to worry about himself or his father.Flocks of Ibis came flying from the west in V-formations and settled to join other Ibis feeding in the exposed tidal flats, delicately poking their long, curved orange bills in the mud.Farther in the distance, against the horizon, stood a white American Egret, its neck pulled in and its wings drawn up.Most beautiful of all to Bryce was a flock of Roseate Spoonbills leisurely feeding.They swished their bills from side to side, just breaking the surface, their reflection staining the water around them a darker pink than the sky.Disrupting this tranquility, a lone Louisiana Heron screamed and danced, flapping its wings in short hops and settling down briefly to make a commotion before taking off again.Bryce was pleased to observe this evening ritual of the birds flying in on the wind, settling, and feeding, and he told his father so."I'd like to come here again," he said."I can see how one might make a habit of this.""It's a loafer's life," said Russell."Nothing more urgent to do than watch the birds."Bryce laughed."I feel I've gotten away finally.Not only from the pressures of New York, of course, but also from the lingering sadness at home [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]