They come in a shout, a brief cry of astonishment – something emerging from the water, sleek and brown and running across a small island before slipping back in with barely a ripple to form gravestone to their presence. We blink and it is over. The one picture I manage to snap is ridiculously over-exposed; not even one body is visible. A field of white.
I sigh. I have waited to see otters for years, it feels. The Bishan 10 did not abandon my Facebook feed for several weeks. Articles of residents complaining at Sentosa perplex me: what does one care for a few fish with the pleasure of having otters in your backyard? (The thousand-dollar price tags of said fish, of course, are of little consequence.) Even in Valparai, someone studying otters kept pointing out places to me: oh, I saw them here once. Oh, I saw them there.
I am a little frustrated. And now I have seen them, and it is hardly enough.
against this sky’s endless canvas,
paint your image with your wings:
call it a self-portrait in ultraviolet.
I’ve been experimenting a bit with photo-editing lately. This, of a blue-throated bee-eater from a trip to Sungei Buloh quite a few months back, is one of the results. I’m not sure what I make of it – let me know what you guys think.
Note: this post is scheduled.
Despite an overabundance of them – well, everywhere – the grace of egrets cannot be denied. Their pure white forms, lithe bodies, and delicate feeding methods (as compared to those of say, a woodpecker) conspire to create a bird of – dare I say it? – beauty. At a recent visit to Sungei Buloh, this Great Egret seemed surrounded by quiet – in the reflections in the water, the serene landscape surrounding. Not another bird was in sight or in ear.