Longboat Key, Florida - The face of wonder has many forms but in winter, on Longboat Key, located between Sarasota Bay and the Gulf of Mexico, it comes on wings. Our first winter here two years ago, some chance encounters with birds allowed me to watch them do things that I hadn't seen before. Observing them for long uninterrupted periods of time left me with a genuine sense of wonder about these birds that was a bridge to getting to know them better and in the process myself.

On a condo grounds by the water, atop a light pole, was an osprey holding a large, freshly caught, gleaming silver fish. I'd never been so close to an osprey at a moment like this. A friend handed me her digital camera. I rarely take pictures of birds, but feeling exuberant, I started taking the first of 30 shots of the bird aptly named the fish-hawk.

In its left talon the osprey held the fish, which was more than half the bird's length, continuously flapping its brown and white wings and spreading its tail. With its hooked bill the raptor started to tear pieces from the fish's mouth. Pulling flesh from a dead fish is painstaking work. I was surprised that something we humans enjoy was a tough chore for a raptor.

Now as I moved closer to the pole the osprey began looking down at me. Its unwavering blazing yellow eye was more than enough to tell me that I was pushing its buttons. The raptor, quickly deciding that it had had enough of a human interloper, lifted off the pole holding its catch and laboriously flew to another nearby lightpole. I didn't follow, partially out of guilt for agitating the bird. With an ocean full of fish, which were ironically difficult to catch and hard to eat, the bird deserved to have its meal in peace.

Some days later viewing my pictures, some of which were quite good, I still felt badly. I promised myself that in the future there would be no more picture taking of ospreys. They don't like being photographed and I didn't need to feel lousy afterward.

The early morning sky was covered with slate gray clouds with some yellow light peeking through. A brown pelican, the bird that a friend refers to as the brown pelly, was in the water a few feet off the nearly deserted beach, paddling along. Several times the bird reared up slightly and went into the water, keeping its extremely large wooden-looking bill and part of its head under. Then the pelican came up and numerous times spread its huge, rubbery looking pouch, which was once reported to hold three and a half gallons of water. I had seen these birds plunge-dive bill first, come up to the surface, spread that pouch, and wondered if they got a fish. Now I realized I'd been asking the wrong question. I should have been asking how many fish? Through binoculars I could see, sticking out from the side of the pelican's bill, what looked like the ends of thick, silver nails. They were in fact numerous fish, which looked like so many tiny Jonahs.

These clumsy looking birds display such athletic grace when skimming mere inches over the water and then plunge-dive into the Gulf of Mexico. One time was during a lengthy feeding frenzy. I've listened to the sounds of the splashes they make as they crash into the water and have watched them mass together in a channel waiting for fish at low tide. This winter, I want to watch them more closely when they fly almost single file, dipping down and then back up over the water as if they were on a gentle roller coaster.

One foggy morning as I began walking across the Longboat Key Bridge to Anna Maria Island, I looked down at the water. By the shore was a little blue heron. Its back was slender and elegant, its movements supple. Gentle ripples from its footsteps spread out in the clear shallow water. There are moments when something is so beautiful that it's hard to look at. This was one of them. The bird had the steady, under appreciated athletic movements of a second baseman and would have to be patient to catch something. Not having the forbearance to wait and with the mysterious fog beckoning I walked on.

Since that morning I've learned a lot about this shoreline hunter. As an unintended consequence I've gotten to know its two other close heron cousins, the bolder looking and faster moving tricolored heron, and the rarer, quasi comic looking reddish egret. Those familiarities enabled me to experience a true birder's moment one cloudy, humid afternoon last winter in an ecosystem park.

A white heron was standing on a railing. Its gray bill was the wrong color for any of the three mentioned herons or egrets of its size. Pause. Then a light bulb went on in my head. It was an immature little blue heron! I never would have been able to recognize it if I hadn't been smitten by the view I had of it in its adult phase from the bridge the winter before. Now every time I walk the Longboat Key Bridge I look down into the water. In my mind's eye I see a little blue whether it is there or not and my legs still won't wait.

In the winter, Longboat Key beaches have an assemblage of non-migratory and migratory birds. You never know what's going to fly in or what you'll find on the beach. This winter I expect to experience long uninterrupted moments with different birds. And I'm not choosey; I'll take whatever comes along.