Purple Gallinule Lands on Island From the South
By E. Vernon Laux
At noon on New Year's Day, Stephen Carlson of Oak Bluffs made
a remarkable discovery.
Mr. Carlson had just left his home on a dirt road when, upon
reaching the pavement, he noticed an object in the road. Dazed and
confused, walking and standing in the middle of the road, was a very odd
bird. As if recovering from a celebratory New Year's Eve, this
bird was bobbing and weaving.
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.
One of the most engaging aspects of observing nature is that every once in a while there is behavior that appears to be mostly, if not entirely, about play, about having fun for fun’s sake.