On yet another futile search at the end of our road by the river, I once again failed to see the fabled Pink-footed Goose, a European-native that had somehow gotten its directional signals crossed, headed over the Atlantic, and wound up practically in my backyard. So it goes. The birds, which seem to be increasing in their waywardness, may have headed elsewhere—at least one has been recently seen in the area of New York City—but I still hold out the hope that persistence may eventually be rewarded. Today, alas, was not that day. At least it was on the warming side, so scanning the river and the fields was definitely less than painful. There weren't many birds to focus on, but the river is now full of minuscule icebergs. Some of the slower-flowing spots upriver were frozen solid last week; now, with the Thaw in place, the ice is departing, some of it melting in place, some of it breaking free and going on an adventure, however brief.