Lewis Island on Friday |
The Delaware is about half a mile wide between Lambertville and New Hope. Normally it's teeming with wildlife. On a sunny day when the river is tranquil and clear you can look down from the bridge into water the color of tea and see leaves and rocks on the bottom, as well as crowds of fat two-foot carp, all facing in the same direction, huddled together. Snapping turtles big and small crawl up and sun themselves on the concrete piers of the bridge.
Ducks fly here and there and land in the water, elegantly, using their wings as ailerons to slow themselves for landing. Goose gangs waddle in formation on the shore, or head out and swim to New Hope. Each gang is made up of something like a dozen white geese and one or two gray ones. I don't know why. Sometimes a pair of swans shows up.
The river in flood is turbid, full of mud and debris. It flows very fast. I have no idea what the carp do to keep from being swept out to sea, perhaps they don't resist, but the waterfowl stick close to the banks where the water is slower. Harold and I went down to the river on Friday morning to see how far it had risen. Two little ducks sped by, carried on the flood. Others toiled upstream, a terrific struggle. We found Lewis Island to be mostly underwater. A little strip of rocks stood up above the maelstrom. One of the goose gangs squatted on it uneasily, as if trying to get comfortable.
A large flock of Canada geese came upstream toward them. We waited to see what would happen. Would they challenge the white geese for their dry spot? No, they paddled on past. The goose gang looked at them, and then at each other. With one accord they slipped into the roiling water and followed them.
It seems strange when you think about it. These creatures can fly, after all. They can walk. Why would they want to be in that water? Who knows what they have on their minds? I don't understand everything I see. This doesn't mean there's nothing to it.
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