The Ibis Watch
By Dawn Paul, New England Aquarium and author of Still River [www.corvidpress.com]

The birds—Glossy Ibises—glided overhead, ink black against the early evening sky. They flew fast, out to a small, low island. The island is just off the coast of Magnolia, Massachusetts, close enough that we could see white specks we knew to be gulls, rising and settling among the rocks around its edge.

We had gathered just before dusk in the parking lot of the Coolidge Reservation and walked across the Ocean Lawn with our picnic baskets. There were about a dozen us, out on a July evening on an Audubon Society outing billed as “Dinner with the Herons.” But the night offered us ibises instead.

The ibises looked like nothing of New England—their slim necks too fragile for a rugged coast, the graceful downward curve of their long bills too exotic. We knew them, even in the near-dark, by the way they carried their heads, slightly raised as though looking forward, taking no heed of anything below.

We sat on a granite outcrop high above the water. The ibises flew in from the west and northwest, from salt marshes and freshwater wetlands. They flew straight, necks outstretched, slender legs trailing behind, supple as reeds. They became aware of us, of our eyes locked upon them, and veered sharply then flew straight again. They flew low over the water, showed black for a moment against the rocks, then disappeared into the island itself.

Every night, from April into late summer, they make this flight. The island is called Kettle Island, though no one knows how it came to have that name. A woman whose family once owned the island says that long ago it was connected to the mainland via a stony spit that now extends from its northwest side. Early colonists drove their cattle across the narrow spit at low tide and pastured them there safe from marauders.

Now the island is completely cut off from the mainland. It has no fresh water except small pools left behind by storms. The island is bound by tough, spiny shrubs and poison ivy. Ibises, herons, and egrets roost there, safe from coyotes and foxes. Their nests and young are safe from weasels, raccoons, and skunks. Even the gulls keep their distance, perhaps deterred by the thick brush. Occasionally, a Great Horned Owl or hawk or even a young eagle might drop down. But for the most part, Kettle Island is a safe place, one of last remaining safe places for wading birds to roost for the night.

The birds that fly out each evening—Glossy Ibises, Little Blue Herons, Great egrets, Snowy Egrets, Little Green Herons, Great Blue Herons—seem rare, though some of them are quite numerous these days. It is their beauty that is rare. There are few things left in this world as beautiful as the birds that fly by us in the gathering dusk to sleep on Kettle Island.

As night comes on, a breeze springs up, and we pull tight the collars of our jackets and sweaters. More Glossy Ibises fly over, still veering off, leery of the watchers below. Though we are harmless, rooted to the rock, our necks bent back like wind-pruned trees. We begin to drift across the lawn behind us, still looking at the sky, grateful at having shared a small part of lives as daily yet intricate as our own.

If you go:

You can view Kettle Island and the flights of ibises and herons from Coolidge Reservation, a Trustees of Reservations property in Manchester-by-the-Sea. Park in The Trustees’ parking lot on Summer Street (Route 127) and walk along a wooded path to the magnificent Ocean Lawn and rocky headlands at the sea’s edge. Kettle Island, one of the most important heron rookeries in Massachusetts, is owned by the Massachusetts Audubon Society.

Photographs by Ben Johnson