One Log, One Lagoon, and a Whole Lot of Bird Drama - June 23, 2026

After a few very hot days of being cooped up indoors while recovering from surgery, my brain had officially started acting like an over-caffeinated squirrel trapped in a shoebox.

Too much time inside. Too much time thinking. Too much news. Too much world. Too much “what am I supposed to do about all of this?” rattling around in my head.

So I decided I needed to get out.

Not a big adventure. Not a hike. Not a “pack snacks, water, bear spray, emotional support sandwich, and hope my body cooperates” kind of outing. Just a short, gentle photo adventure.

And I knew exactly where to go: a local nature lagoon about twenty minutes from home. Even better, the spot I wanted was only about one minute from the parking lot.

Perfect.

Nature, but make it surgery-recovery friendly.

I made my way down to the shoreline, found myself a log, and settled in. That was it. That was the grand expedition. One minute from the car, sitting on a log, camera in hand, waiting to see who showed up.

And honestly? The lagoon delivered like it had been personally waiting for me.

First up: Bald Eagle.

Because apparently we were starting with drama.

An adult eagle was perched high in a tree, looking majestic and important, as eagles do. I could hear the juveniles calling nearby, doing that wonderfully wild, screechy “FEED ME / NOTICE ME / I AM A YOUNG DINOSAUR” thing, but I couldn’t quite see them.

Then the adult eagle took off. But not before giving me a flash of his butt. Nature photography is so glamorous. Haha.

Once airborne, the eagle circled the lagoon and tried to catch a fish not once, not twice, but three times. Three attempts. Zero fish.

I don’t want to say I related too hard to that eagle, but honestly, watching him try his best and still come up empty felt spiritually familiar.

He was magnificent, though. Even unsuccessful, a Bald Eagle missing a fish is still more graceful than I am trying to get off the couch right now.

As I sat there on my log, watching all of this unfold, the next performers entered the stage: Barn Swallows.

Tiny feathered fighter jets.

They zipped and swooped and cut through the air like they were late for something extremely important. I love watching swallows fly because they make the impossible look easy. Meanwhile, I trip over flat sidewalks, so I have deep respect for their skills.

Eventually, a few landed on a nearby building to enjoy the sun, which gave me a chance to photograph them without having to track a flying blur at warp speed.

And then came a new species for me. A Violet-green Swallow.

At first, I thought he was just black and white. Very handsome, very crisp, very formal. But then the light caught his back and suddenly there it was: green and purple shimmering through his feathers.

WOW.

Like a tiny bird wearing a secret jewel-toned cape.

I may or may not have whispered, “Incredible,” out loud to myself.

Actually, let’s be honest. I absolutely did.

Next up: Canada Geese.

Lots of them.

Most were napping, because apparently the lagoon was also operating as a goose day spa. One goose had a gosling tucked nearby, which was very sweet.

Others were standing in the shallow water near a Killdeer that was busy pecking away along the edge, looking for dinner.

In one of the photos, the two geese looked exactly like bodyguards for the Killdeer.

Like, “Nobody bothers the little one. He’s eating.”

The Killdeer, of course, looked completely unbothered and very important, as if he had hired them personally.

Honestly, if I ever get famous, I want two Canada Geese as security. No one would mess with me. Nobody wants that level of honking confrontation.

Then, as I continued sitting on my very luxurious waterfront log, the Purple Martins arrived.

Lots of them.

Did you know?

Purple Martins are not really “purple” in the obvious way. In most light, they look more like tiny birds dressed in black velvet for a very fancy evening event. But when the sun hits just right, their feathers flash that beautiful purple-blue sheen. Nature loves a dramatic outfit reveal.

They were busy feeding nestlings in their nest boxes, flying in and out with the urgency of exhausted parents who have not had a quiet moment since the eggs hatched.

Which, honestly, same energy as anyone trying to keep up with hungry children.

One Purple Martin gave me a look from her nest box that absolutely looked like pursed lips.

I laughed.

Sorry, little one. I was not here to disturb your parenting shift. I just wanted your portrait.

There is something so funny about bird expressions. I know they are not actually making human faces at us, but also… sometimes they absolutely are.

This one looked like she was saying, “Ma’am. I am busy.”

Fair.

And then, just when I thought the evening could not get better, I heard it.

That unmistakable rattling call. Kingfisher. If you know, you know.

Before I could even fully process it, one kingfisher came flying in and landed on top of a post where the cormorants usually sit.

Then a second one appeared and landed on a nearby power line among the Purple Martins.

Two kingfishers. Out of nowhere. Because apparently the lagoon had decided to spoil me.

Kingfishers always seem like they have somewhere to be and a complaint to file when they get there. They are loud, fast, slightly chaotic, and completely wonderful.

I sat there grinning like a fool.

Then came a flash of yellow.

An American Goldfinch zoomed right past me and landed in the grasses. He did not stay long, because goldfinches apparently operate on the same schedule as tiny celebrities avoiding paparazzi, but I managed to snap a photo of his beautiful face before he flew off.

And finally, last but not least, a teeny tiny Dunlin picked along the shoreline.

So small. So focused. So completely committed to the important business of shoreline snacking.

And the wildest part? All of this happened from one spot. One log. One shoreline. One minute from the parking lot. Twenty minutes from my house.

No big expedition. No strenuous hike. No dramatic plan. Just a quiet evening at a local lagoon, sitting still long enough for nature to come to me.

And I needed it so badly.

Recovery has been hard. Not just physically, but mentally. When you are stuck inside for too long, your mind can get loud. Mine certainly has. Too much chatter. Too many thoughts about the state of the world. Too much feeling powerless. Too much wondering where I fit and what I can do and how to carry all of it.

But nature knows how to find the mute button. It takes the noise and softens it. It takes the spiral and interrupts it with wings.

Nature just let me sit on a log and remember that I am still here. Still healing. Still noticing. Still capable of wonder.

And for that, I am incredibly grateful.

Sometimes the adventure you need is not far away. Sometimes it is one minute from the parking lot.

Bonus: The Dockside Fisher

And as a bonus, a Great Blue Heron was fishing from an old defunct dock. Great Blue Herons always amaze me. One moment they look like they are frozen in place, and the next, strike! Their precision and accuracy are incredible.

This one worked the edge of the dock like a pro, all patience, balance, and dagger-bill concentration.

The dock may have been out of service, but the heron definitely was not.