Or possibly, the same duck. Hard to tell them apart. A lone male bufflehead diving and feeding in the piling field by my bench. The reason I'm thinking this may be a different guy is the same reason I'm thinking he may just be passing through: he was right up near the seawall. The buffleheads who winter down here stay way out at the end of the pilings, wanting no part of the people-and-dog action close in. This guy was single-mindedly chasing fish and didn't seem to notice any of us large mammals.

I love being home. I love to travel, too, but I feel as though I've been on the road since I went to Mongolia in July. (More about which I have yet to post for you, I know. It's coming.) Now I'm off the road until early March, and I'm getting back into the rhythm of here. I can notice which ducks are coming and going. I can watch the leaves turn brown and, in a heavy rain like the one we had last night, all collapse off the trees at once. That's the thing about travel: you don't get into the rhythm of anywhere. That's not necessarily bad. It's one of the reasons to do it: it keeps you from taking things for granted, it makes everything something to notice. But rhythm's good, too. Routine is not to be scoffed at. Right now I'm loving it, and I will right up until such time as I get the itch to travel again, which I hope will be right around early March.