They came out of the marsh grasses in the silent, pristine morning, unexpected and scary-looking. My throat went dry. First one then a second, then a third appeared and walked over the wet ground to the water's edge. Their tails were short with dark markings; their eyes smeared black and looked like children's stuffed animals. The legs weren't as high as I'd imagined and they were bulkier than I'd expected. No matter, they were raccoons, the very same Florida raccoons that I'd joked about in this column two months ago before coming to Florida. Improbably, at 9:45 AM on Super Bowl Sunday morning I was looking at a trio of these nocturnal creatures, which I never expected to see, much less in an eco-system park about one half mile from my apartment.

The yellow-billed mottled ducks that were dabble-feeding in the water had apparently attracted the raccoons. From where I stood on the far bank of the waters of the tidal marsh they looked to be inches from the ducks. Were they going to attack? The mammals' faces were filled with curiosity and "look at that" expressions, which belied any such intentions. One that had stopped, now scampered to catch up with the other two and I wondered if I hadn't come upon an adult and two children. Looking up after writing a few notes, my heart sank. They were gone. Once again, they came out of the grasses, which momentarily hid them, while they walked near the water's edge. Their appearance however was short-lived. Again they disappeared into the grasses, this time permanently.

Any other morning I would have gladly looked at the great egrets, snowy egrets, a beautiful slow moving little blue heron and some tricolor herons, all fish eating birds, that were now hunting. I walked around that area of the park for a time but in truth the birds were not what my eyes were seeking. I was scanning the edge of the water for any signs of the raccoons. I'd spent most of my emotional bank account because before sighting the raccoons I'd spent 40 minutes watching another fish eating bird, the wood stork, which is on the endangered species list.

While standing on one of the small bridges over the tidal marsh, I heard the great fluttering of wings before I saw the wood stork land at the top of a tree. It started to peck at something only to be pushed away by another wood stork that flew in just seconds after the first one. In the few times I'd seen this bird, whose wing span is more than five feet, they had been passive, standing still, not feeding or flying. They had appeared listless as if they knew they were endangered.

Earlier I had come upon the wood stork while it was feeding on small fish in the water at low tide on the Sarasota Bay side of the park. The wood stork is white with black wings and has a long downwardly curved bill and long, spindly looking legs. Repeatedly the big bird stuck its head into the cold morning water, stirring the muck with one of its flesh-colored feet, and then lifting its bill from the water. Now it held seaweed at the tip with a small, shiny fish entangled in the green stuff. The bird quickly moved the fish part way up its bill, clamped down and put it down. Numerous times I watched the bird's delicate balancing act of separating a brownish fish from the weed, holding it at the tip of its bill and managing to swallow it. Each time it got a fish I was glad for the big bird. But each time was about one out of every seven times. As I watched the wood stork plunge its head into the water I wondered how many of those tiny fish it would take to fill up its stomach. It seemed to be a lot of work for a meager meal.

The wood stork now was starting to show the effects of its exertions. There is a rectangular white bulge the shape of the leather patch on jeans on the bird's forehead. The more it stuck its head into the water the more swollen that bulge seemed to become. A small water soaked feather hung from the bird's neck. I looked at the fiery black eye every time it disappeared into the water and was beginning to empathize with the wood stork. Once after coming up with nothing, the bird seemed frustrated, looked around and moved to another spot. It was no eating machine but a thinking creature. I admired this ungainly and hard-working, effective feeder. Maybe it was getting enough. After a while the breeze coming off the bay chilled me and I started to move on but not before I saw the bird flap its long wings and apparently lift off only to return to its spot. Was it trying to pull something stubborn from the water? No matter I'd come back later.

Now I looked on as both wood storks flew off. I stood on the bridge, wiped out. I had seen wood storks and had an understanding of how they fed not to mention a rare appearance by a trifecta of raccoons. Prit-tee good. No matter what happened that night at the Super Bowl, I knew that I'd just had my own Super Sunday. Say, didn't a team with a bird's name play in that game?