Sam "the birdman" Dalhed solves the mystery!

Glenn,
I think that the bird we saw is the black-crowned night heron.  I have 
attached a picture of the adult, and the other one with brownish color 
is identified as a juvenile.  The description of the characteristics in 
Peterson Field Guide to Birds seems to match the behavior we saw.  The 

guide describes siting the bird as uncommon!

 
                                                No turtlenecks for this guy!

Lyle, Raggio, Joe and Coach ...and a mystery bird type?

We just couldn't figure what kind of fowl it was- never seen one before ...Closer to a gull, we think, but not a gull- an elk perhaps?

                                                                              Company near the 6th tee.

To golf or not to golf

What so silent creeps with evil intent, without a whisper of its coming?
Tickles the throat and allows not the clearing a normal disturbance makes;
Cast not the eye on this villain, and perhaps destination will choose another (The Hat, maybe);
A skirmish in the sinus, the sleeping familiar warning of Nyquil nights to come.

Morning’s arrival has company: a Kleenex, a Kleenex, my dignity for a Kleenex!

What cold deed now seeks revenge on my throat and avoids all abating?

A hot ember residing with comfort sits, as if a servant
To inspect roughly anything that might attempt to pass.
A symphony in the making; coughing with notes of varying sounds from basso to falsetto,
Followed by a gentle wheeze that rests with insistent pride on every breath.

Like a one-hit oldie, there is no expectation of arrival,
You know the notes, the melody, and the harmony—and there it is:
A cold, your cold.

One would think that given the many rehearsals,
You could play through the misadventures:
Be d’Artagnan and duel all symptoms to rest.
Not.

I am six when I’m sick:
Ginger ale, Vaporub, and Campbell’s chicken soup (the musketeers)
Must follow until that morning when the corner arrives,
When my voice no longer sounds like it’s exiting through one nostril,
When blowing my nose doesn’t feel like it might blow an eye into my soup.

I used to read the thermometer without glasses;
A non sequitur, yes, but I have allowance.
I am seriously feeling sorry for my three-days-ago self.

Okay, so it wasn’t Iwo Jima, but it was a form of hand-to-hand combat with myself;
Fight, but do not slay; you might need those lungs later …

Ok, so it wasn't an elk

I’m sure it was an elk, though Lyle has doubts,
Says elk don’t live here, they travel different routes.

Sure looked like an elk, but I needed a witness.
Marvin, I know what you mean—they’re questioning my fitness!

So I looked up elk, compared the picture—Lyle was right,
I blame it on the brief encounter in the failing light.

If see it again I’ll rush to get close,
Take pictures or video—it wasn’t a ghost! 

The gal in full circle

“Usta” Golf

There was a time when there were no elements, save snow or storm, that could deflect or affect “the game.” Raingear, waterproof shoes, weather gloves or sweat-sapping shirt—and the bag was carried, not pulled, and rarely rode on the back of a cart!

The poker/golf group recently agreed, over a dealt hand of draw poker, that those days have passed. Rain, temperature, dampness, wind, or even threatening clouds (though we all agreed there must be four or more to complete the threat) have become permanent deterrents. Macho golf has gone the way of the princess phone, Bosco, chariots and Cronkite. Yep, we all agreed there must be reasonable decisions in our “advanced” years; bluffing, raising, calling, and threatening behind five cards is much more civilized than yelling “fore” through freezing hands, having our shoes muddied with fat shots, losing valuable tees, and polluting the game with excuses.

I call.