SNOWY VISITORS 



VER my table, as I 

 write, is a big snowy 

 owl, whose yellow 

 eyes seem to be 

 always watching 

 me, whatever J do. 

 Perhaps he is still 

 wondering at the 

 curious way in 

 which he came to 

 my den. 



One stormy after- 

 noon, a few winters ago, I was watching for 

 black ducks by a lonely salt creek that 

 doubled across the marshes from Maddaket 

 Harbor. In the shadow of a low ridge I had 

 built my blind among some bushes, near the 

 freshest water. In front of me a solitary 



decoy was splashing about in joyous freedom 

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