In the cliff that rises immediately above our little house, no more than 9 feet above the ground, there are three largish grassy nests cemented by white excrement so generously that long trails hang off the edges like the bodies of wraiths with shaggy wigs. In fact, as you draw your eyes skyward, you find that the wall is spackled with these bushy wigs and crinkled sheets. The drippings extend to the ground, indeed, they coat the ground we walk on on our way to work. The grass is flattened by the half-hearted asphalt, our daily commute perfumed with an odor part fish, part earth, part bird bowel.
These nests are the homes of three nesting pairs of large, long-necked, black birds with with bright red wrinkled masks. These are krasnolitziye baklany, or red-faced cormorants.
As I pass these nests, on my way to work, these birds propel themselves off the cliff just ahead of me and above my head in a sudden, noisy huff, often leaving a little contribution to the pavement. For a brief moment, in great detail, you see their longish straight beaks tipped with a sharp curl, their red faces bright against black bodies with a beetle-like green sheen, their extended necks, their shortish wings pumping powerfully, their legs, in indescreetly bright white knickers, stretched behind their bodies, their webbed claws curled in a fist, and you curse at yourself that you forgot the photo camera. As many times as I have told myself I will try to capture these birds photographically in their nests, or in flight, their sudden rush from the wall next to a sleepy head is invariably a surprise. The strength it takes to think clearly in the morning is still beyond my grasp.
This is a shame, because I do not think these birds will withstand the consistent aggravation of simian neighbors tromping off to work and home. On my third day here I discovered a pile of partially digested slender silvery-blue fish on our pathway. I suspect that these fish were repulsed from the stomach of a cormorant as a vivid expression of disgust at our very presence. I imagine that, in a futile, nihilistic way, it must have been a satisfying gesture for the bird.
On this, the seventh day of being on the island, I have not seen them at all. Nor yesterday. I fear they have moved on. Already, in the wind and the spray and the fog, the lowest-hung pennants of guano are fading, as is the image of their daily flush just above my head just outside the door of my little home.
