Mike and I are sitting in our camping chairs on a mat of cattails, trampled down by the feet that came before ours as they approached the shore of Freezout Lake. The smell of the mudflat lingers in the air when the breeze dies, triggering memories of eastern salt marshes, which is ironic, given that we’re sitting at the western edge of the Great Plains in Central Montana. The low angle sunlight lays on the broad, broken cattail leaves, painting them a more golden hue than they would otherwise appear. They make a whispered rattle as they are shaken by the wind off the distant Rocky Mountain Front.

As I gaze through my spotting scope, I name the waterfowl. Northern shoveler. American wigeon. Common goldeneye. White pelican. Its brilliant white is eye-catching. I watch it preen with its comically long bill. I can see the details of individual feathers, a contrast of light and shadow. The vivid colors of its skin are a surprise. It reminds me of a tropical cocktail. Its dark eye is decorated with yellow and orange eye shadow. The top of its bill is the least vibrant — a dusty orange. Its mouth gapes red. The bill edge is lined with baby pink. But the most shocking is the canary yellow of its pouch that darkens to sunset orange at its chin. Below, magenta legs disappear in the dark water.

Northern pintail — note the white chinstrap. Mallard — that green head shimmers in the light. Gadwall — a subtle duck with a noteworthy black butt. Redhead and canvasback — russet heads, one with a yellow eye, one with red. These ducks seem like old friends to me. I remember when I was learning them at Lake Mattamuskeet in North Carolina. Mike would call out the “white wedge” on the side of the ring-necked duck, the fast wing-flap of the green-winged teal. I’m not sure when my eyes finally learned all those notes, but today may be the most confident I’ve ever been that I am seeing exactly those features, that I recognize each one. The excellent light doesn’t hurt.

I’m startled from my reverie as the snow geese lift, three thousand black and white bodies circling the sky. The volume of their endless calls cycles with the movement of the flock. I spot the dark silhouette of the eagle that spooked them off the water as they sink down again, one by one: wings set, feet out, dropping onto the water. I scan the flock with the scope, picking out one, then two of the miniature Ross’s geese. The snow geese are bug-eyed and smiling. The Ross’s geese look a little pissed off… do they resent their smaller stature?

My fingers have chilled as the shadows of the cattails fall on my book, as I rush to scribble some closing thoughts. Car tires rumble on the gravel and wind turbines circle on the horizon. The light turns even more impossibly golden as I linger for a final moment.