Somewhere on the great plain of Martha’s Vineyard death and the heath hen have met. One day, just as usual, there was a bird called the heath hen, and the next day there was none. How he came to his end no human being can know. But the death of wild birds is a violent death. The eye becomes dimmed, the beat of the wings lags ever so little, the star of fortune blinds for a fraction of a second it is enough. An enemy strikes and death has come.
The sky above Norton Point Beach was swarming with terns on a cloudy day this week, as tiny chicks — newly hatched and full of life — raced around on the sand below.
Word has come down from on high: If you’re a wounded gull, the place you want to seek refuge and rely on the kindness of islanders is Chappaquiddick Point, right where the ferry lands.
Noah Galley was carrying grain to the family barn when when he saw a large bird flying in short bursts across the property. He identified the bird as a juvenile bald eagle. The young bird has been rescued for possible rehabilitation by noted naturalist Gus Ben David.
