Standing Dead in the Water

This morning I perched on a fallen timber at the edge of the beaver swamp, camera ready. The slow sun climbed above the distant tree line. As I waited for the swamp to awaken, a shiver came over me; reminded me to blow warm air into my gloved hands.

My seat was a long reclining tree trunk, likely felled in the past 5 years by the beaver whose job it was to make a wetland home. That home I now surveyed with quiet wonder as the vapors condensed in the cold air. A pileated woodpecker ratcheted a morning hello. Another replied. I saw the first chase the second towards the sun. I started thinking more about the trees in the wetland. Many were standing dead in the water. Others, like my seat, were lying dead. I developed a greater appreciation for dead trees this cold morning. The pileated woodpeckers depended on them for food and home. The wood ducks I sought to photograph also depended on them for shelter. Here in the swamp the arboreal sacrifices diversified the habitat, enriched the ecosystem. I found beauty in a tree strewn beaver pond.

There is a conflict to puzzle over. Why in one location is a dead tree a thing of beauty while in another, evidence of harm? As an admirer of trees, I tend towards angst when I find one ravaged at the base, tooth-marked and weeping sap. It isn't a pretty sight, especially in a hardwood forest along the banks of my beloved Eno River. But here in a shallow valley fed by a trickling stream, the result is wholesome and acceptable. I guess the juxtaposition supports the notion that every place has a purpose, as do the things within that place. Sometimes we lose our place and need some redirection.

Well this morning I was glad to be in that place. I hope I didn't intrude too much, leave a nasty mark for the beavers to loath. I didn't see the wood ducks today, maybe too early. I'll try again in a few weeks.

A Traveling Tale

Heading to work the other morning, I walked from the warm house to the cold car and heard the sound from the edge of the yard. A dying high pitched whistle, as a finger once around a crystal rim. In an instant I was on the rocky edge of the trail in Maine, four years back, with Katahdin, mysterious in the distance.

I now listened once more, hand inches from the cold door handle, eyes half closed, ear to the sky, between two places. The White Throated Sparrow was back for the winter. I smiled and drove to work, recalling time in the great north woods.

Funny how a little bird carried that memory to me on weary wings, from its mild summer home up north to its southern winter retreat in my yard. Before my trip to Maine in the summer of '06 I didn't know about the White Throat. But it was there, near tree line in a true wilderness, where the lonesome sound caught my attention, defined a place. The park ranger had confirmed it for me and told of its later departure for warmer winter climates. That winter back south, back home, I heard the sound again. It had new meaning.

I consider it my Maine bird, like a distant relative bringing tales of other lands home for the holidays. It hides in the thinning brush, scratches at the ground leaves, visits the window feeder. When the air is crisp and the sun is low, it sings out a traveling tale.