Somewhere on the great plain of Martha’s Vineyard death and the heath hen have met. One day, just as usual, there was a bird called the heath hen, and the next day there was none. How he came to his end no human being can know. But the death of wild birds is a violent death. The eye becomes dimmed, the beat of the wings lags ever so little, the star of fortune blinds for a fraction of a second it is enough. An enemy strikes and death has come.
The sky above Norton Point Beach was swarming with terns on a cloudy day this week, as tiny chicks — newly hatched and full of life — raced around on the sand below.
Word has come down from on high: If you’re a wounded gull, the place you want to seek refuge and rely on the kindness of islanders is Chappaquiddick Point, right where the ferry lands.
