And we have more photos. Today’s come from Jan Malik, documenting the birds of Barnegut Inlet in New Jersey. Jan’s captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.

My previous batch from the Barnegat Inlet covered geese and ducks. It’s time for some of the other coastal birds now.

Immature Double-crested Cormorant (Nannopterum auritum). In contrast to diving ducks, these birds have no buoyancy problem and submerge easily.

Common Loon (Gavia immer). Judging by the slightly pinkish gape at the base of its bill and the fuzzy transition between black and white, this is an immature bird that stays on coastal bay waters before maturing and returning to quiet inland lakes to breed:

Another loon, this one with a mangled crustacean that I suspect is an Atlantic blue crab (Callinectes sapidus). I wonder if a diving loon preferentially picks a freshly molted crab the way we select ripe fruit:

Not a great loon picture, but we can see enough of the prey’s fins to identify the fish as an Oyster Toadfish (Opsanus tau), a species in which males provide parental care to eggs and young. The fish was big and bony, so the loon struggled a bit to swallow it. That fish would be a terrible choice for performing the Fish Slapping Dance. For the loon, it would be preferable to swallow its catch underwater, because at the surface it may be stolen by gulls, who know where a bird has dived and circle above waiting for it to reappear:

A couple of Savannah Sparrows were hopping on the rocks. I suspect that this pale bird with very little yellow in its brow is an Ipswich Sparrow, a subspecies (Passerculus sandwichensis princeps) that breeds on the sand spit of Sable Island off Nova Scotia:

Three species of shorebirds are common in winter at the Barnegat Inlet, all quite similar at first glance in size and plumage, but each occupying a different ecological niche. First, the Ruddy Turnstones (Arenaria interpres), here trying to sleep—probably using only one half of their brain to watch for predators, in unihemispheric slow-wave sleep. Their bills are short, stubby, and slightly upturned, adapted for—just as their name suggests—turning over beach debris to search for invertebrates hiding underneath:

Next, the Dunlins (Calidris alpina). They feed, roost, and migrate in large flocks. Unlike Turnstones, their bills are long, slender, and sensitive, used for probing tidal mudflats for worms and crustaceans:

Last, there are the Purple Sandpipers (Calidris maritima). Their bills are more “general purpose” than those of the other two species. Their covert feathers do show a purple sheen in the right light:

Purple Sandpipers and Dunlins are not very afraid of people on their wintering grounds; they may rest a few meters from a quiet observer. But the slightest hint of danger can trigger the whole flock to take flight in an instant—only to land nearby a moment later:

Purple Sandpipers are adapted to rocky coasts, where they feed on mussels exposed during low tides and on other invertebrates. The undersides of their feet must have a texture that allows them to walk sure‑footed on slime‑covered, slippery rocks:

 They have also evolved Silly Walks:

A distant Harbor Seal (Phoca vitulina), a frequent sight in the Inlet, always seems to look at the jetty with disappointment when it notices that this prime haul‑out spot is occupied by people:

As I was about to leave, the colors of the sunset behind a distant house caught my attention, so I took a picture, thinking little of it. Only back home—rather like the character in Antonioni’s Blowup—did I realize that the picture hides a predator the sleeping shorebirds must be on guard against. To be honest, I can’t be sure this was a flesh‑and‑blood predator and not one made of polystyrene, but the impression remains: