The water level is high. Swollen by melted ice and spring rains, the pond has been reclaimed by several species of dabblers. Two northern shovelers, aptly named for their shovel-like bills, spin around each other like children's tops, a feeding pattern peculiar to the species. A bonded pair of exquisite, diminutive green-winged teal cruise about, heads bobbing like dolls. At the north end mallards court, splash, preen and mate among reflections of swamp maple that will bud any day now. In less than a month these woods will be greening as April gives voice to spring migrants and returning summer residents. Once again I will delight in the chick-a perweeoo-chick of the white-eyed vireo as catbirds mew and mutter in the undergrowth and songsparrows peddle their gurgling melodies from every corner of their territory. I will keep a sharp ear out for the chip of the northern waterthrush, to watch it teeter ever so gracefully at the water's edge. And sure enough, my heart will skip a beat to the song of the first yellow warbler, calling high up, at the tips of the lime-green birch branches, a gold flash against the cerulean sky: sweet, sweet, sweeter than sweet.
At the blind I meet people from all walks of life: a teacher, a cop, an airline pilot, a student, an opera buff. Birders, photographers, mostly, but also moms and dads with kids who like turtles or snakes or birds. Some stay for a short time, ticking off this bird or that. Others stay longer, even when the pond is quiet. They know from experience that what happens here is unpredictable, serendipitous. During migration the woods harbor sharp-shinned and Cooper's hawks. Last year I photographed an immature goshawk that arrived unannounced and landed some 30 yards away in shallow water. After a leisurely drink he walked toward me, slushing through the water, broad-shouldered, like an avian General MacArthur. Within 20 feet of the blind he stopped to bathe. Several years ago the pond was host to a least bittern. Every day, at 10 a.m. he arrived to dine on Fowler's toads and green frogs. This continued for several weeks. Then he was gone. It was the first and only time I have observed a least bittern at Jamaica Bay.
Last fall I met an elderly gentleman, who looked to be in his 70's, of slight build, ebullient, with an infectious laugh. He confided to me that he cared for an invalid wife. Today was his day off. Inspired by a photo essay of birds, he had taken up nature photography. I soon realized that the photos he was describing were mine. Several were composed at this very spot, the blind at Big John's Pond. It was a special moment for both of us.
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