Teligive 54, Us0. BeOINe Bal le Lab yroi Ni 11 
A Summer Evening at the Sanctuary 
By BoB SMART 
I ARRIVED at the sanctuary just as the pink flecked clouds of the evening 
sky and the lengthening shadows of the trees on green verdured islands 
were reflected in the mirror-like surface of the lagoon. Young rabbits were 
playing and feeding on the grass near my feet, oblivious of my presence. 
A fiock of wild ducks flew by silhouetted against the setting sun, banked, 
turned into the gentle night breeze, and on set wings skidded to a stop not 
far away. 
A hummingbird moth is busy sipping the nectar from the blue vervain 
which grows at the water’s edge. Across a narrow bayou I see several birds 
darting in and out among the mountain ashes and sumacs. The dusk clothes 
them in mystery and their identity evades me. Their flight is like that of 
the swallows but they are too small. Their backs seem light brown and they 
are lighter underneath, but their constant, silent flight gives no further clue 
to their identity. My curiosity aroused, I push off in the boat and with 
silent oars approach for closer observation. Another glimpse, somewhat 
closer, makes me wonder if they could be vireos, those mysterious denizens 
of the tree tops which we often hear but so seldom see. Can this then be 
their way of giving vent to pent-up energies so apparently lacking in their 
usual personalities? One last glance as they disappear into the gathering 
dusk leaves a question posed, but unanswered. 
Other things beckon me onward. The twittering of robins settling down 
for the night in the bushes can be heard. My shadowy craft disturbs them 
from their chosen perch among the highbush cranberries and honeysuckles 
whose berry-laden branches hang to the water’s surface. The quick chirp 
of the brown thrasher gives notice of his presence in the wild grape vine 
which is strangling out some less aggressive shrub. 
I round the end of an island into the last warm glow of a sky whose 
sun has set. Startled by my sudden appearance, several broods of half- 
grown ducks waddle from the bank and swim off in quacking protest. 
As the shadow of my boat moves slowly along the nearby shore I see a 
statuette apparently carved from the snag on which it stands. Perhaps a 
passing sculptor wrought this bit of art and left it among its natural sur- 
roundings—but no, it has come to life in the form of a little green heron 
and expertly wings its way through narrow air lanes between the poplars. 
It disturbs a kingfisher, whose harsh rattle shatters the stillness of the eve- 
ning as he finds his way to a new perch. 
On another island a short distance to the westward, the dead limbs of 
an ancient poplar stand in relief against the waning light. Stork-like, a 
great blue heron clings to his airy roost. A few quiet strokes with the oars 
bring me drifting nearer to him. His day’s work done, he stands preening 
his feathers with his scissors-like bill. His crest, held erect, is clearly 
outlined against the sky. His preparations for the night completed, with 
his long neck drawn in close to his body, he looked like a large ear of corn 
held perpendicular on two long spindly stilts. In a nearby tree a black- 
