The wind dropped, finally. The water at Isleham became suffused with warm cobalt, and olive reflected tussocks shimmered against the steely mud. The same peachy glow that hinted what was to come this morning, now shone from the opposite quarter, picking out the flanks of Little Ringed Plovers and Avocets. The unmistakeable silhouette of a Greenshank tracked across the far end, while a pair of Garganey slept.
The drake Garganey is surely one of the most finely sculpted of all ducks. The flow of the scapulars across the back, echoed by the white flank crescent and broad eyestripe- the ripe plum tones of the head- all bathed in high definition light. My digiscope couldn't quite do them justice.
