Enrich The Story

Hello there. Hope you’re doing well. I’m OK. Thanks for asking. Just sitting here on the edge of your photo. You seemed to have focused on the cool guys there in the middle. No worries, I’m used to it by now. I’m just glad you didn’t step on me or crop me out. Yeah, I know I’m different, what with the 9 petals instead of 10. The cool guys in the middle each have 10… big whoop. I get by with 9. At least the pollinators still visit me often, if you know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong, I would love to take center stage from time to time. When I was young I thought I had potential, I mean real superstar potential; the kind that can get you a cover shot in “Wildflower World.” But fate had other plans as petal # 10 wilted away one stormy, overcast day. You could say I lost my flower power in a midday shower. Sometimes I have to joke to make folks feel comfortable around me. But I’m no joke.

I belong here. I have a purpose. My roots hold the soil down just like everyone else. I can make friends with anyone if given a chance. One of my best friends was Miss Daisy. She was a looker and a real sweetie too. But looks can get you booked. Her life was cut short and she was laid to rest in a bright-eyed 4th grader’s flower press book. I guess if there’s an afterlife, that would be a good one. I sure miss her. Just before she was plucked away, she told me something I’ll never forget. She said “Keep your head up kid; you enrich the story of life.”

I’m beginning to understand what she meant. I suppose you could say I balance the composition. Thanks for noticing me.

Every Feather Clean

Stalking the brackish muck, keeping every feather clean and in order, he hides in the marsh grass. You can't get too close to the snowy egret. When you do, he leaps with awkward grace to become the prettiest one in the sky. From a distance you admire him. Up close you respect him.

And So Too the Roost

Edge of town. Edge of the woods. A big wild bird walks a known path, cautiously. The road I'm on crosses his travel route. I stop. He turns and struts awkwardly into the woods.

The first time I saw turkeys in this location, I counted twelve, pecking slowly in the short grass. Sometimes I see mom and chicks. Follow the leader. I only saw the one this evening. Big Tom. Dusk was near. And so too the roost, I assume. He disappeared into the timber.

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.

Creatures Teaming

The river otters were unexpected. But there they were, suddenly. I was startled for a moment, then excited. I had just flushed a family of wood ducks and my heart rate was settling as I stepped over the beaver logs, through the bent grass, to the edge of the backwater. The sparrows were in and out of the grasses, like hide and seek. It was a quiet spot save for the wild creatures teaming all around. I had to laugh, for a second, at the seeming providence leading me to the wilds.

A red tailed hawk screeched as it joined the scene atop one of the many sun-bleached deadwoods standing over the wet lowland. We both watched the otters.

Spore of Adventure

The Eno River Watershed, infinite diversity. The plan was to walk the quarry path and maybe sit in the spotlight of sun on the high bluff overlooking the river, if Grayson was up for it. He rode in the backpack carrier and promptly, but not surprisingly, fell asleep on the trail within the first 5 minutes.

About 40 minutes later he awoke just as I descended a wooded slope to a bubbling bend in the river. He immediately stretched out his finger and uttered a slightly tired, yet hopeful, coo towards the shimmering water. We had never stood at that spot before. We didn't know exactly where we were, but we were glad to be there.

While he had slept, I found myself on a blissful bushwhack. He didn't seem to mind at all. It wasn't the original plan. Some spore of adventure settled upon my will and quickly germinated. I departed the trail at a dense green carpet of locally rare ground cedar, which I considered a sign of unique geography worth exploring. Standing in the middle of the lush ground cover, I noticed a not too distant ridge of dappled light through the trees, signifying the edge of a bluff. Soon I was standing on the break, in an airy woods, surveying my options. My ear caught a faint gurgle of water below, and so I went with gravity, gradually down the gradient.

I feel that I know the Eno well, yet often and again I am stunned by its secrets. We stood at a simple, beautiful corner of river where angled light danced from the turning leaves to the emboldered stream. Deep shadows rolled off the backs of the smooth, large rocks. The water was clear today. Grayson pointed again. My camera's battery gauge blinked a red warning. I sighed, but it didn't really matter; I wouldn't have been able to capture that moment with a million button pushes.

We walked back a slightly different route (adding a couple more adventures), but still through the woods, up and over the ridge, through the cedar patch, and finally back along the familiar trail.