Field Notes

07.11.09
Cattails rustle in the breeze, the only movement on the marsh this morning. Sounds of an angry duck. A couple of bullfrogs. A pair of yellow-throated warblers guarding their nest in the shrub willows. I sit on the bank and smell the warmth coming off the water. A rich earthy scent of moisture and decay. I know that nothing will reveal itself until I become a part of the landscape. I must be still and wait, inspite of the mosquitoes. That is what it is to be a naturalist. There are two basic ingredients. One, intense curiosity, and two, the ability to sit quietly and observe.

I have my perches in these woods. I have followed a beaver trail to this open spot above the marsh. A chorus of bullfrogs draws my attention. I have not heard as many in one spot in a long time.

The cattails have both male and female parts now. It is time to collect pollen for pancakes. The wind picks up and blows the mosquitoes away. Small clouds of yellow pollen rise like smoke from the cattail spike. Pollination occurs before my eyes as the breeze dies and the pollen settles on the lower female part of the spike. I think about moving on to my next station, where I can get a better look at the entire marsh, but I am reluctant to alert the neighborhood to my presence again as everything has settled back into its routine.

It is so beautiful here. That, too, is part of the experience. We were put here on this earth to witness beauty, and I must acknowledge my own rapture. A goldfinch squeaks above me.

I move on and get caught up in a heron feeding ritual before I can even get to my next stop. Their cackling calls me and I watch the three juveniles follow an adult to the edge of a beaver lodge. There is a huge commotion. Beaks clack as they vie for food from the adult's mouth. My arms grow tired holding the binoculars as the clacking and cackling continues. The adult regurgitates on a pile of mud and sticks and there is a feeding frenzy as the gangly young ones go for it. The adult raises its head above the fray and the youngsters are up once again reaching for its beak. They are very demanding in their pursuit of food. I imagine the adult must feel a bit like a mother who is ready for her kids to leave home and fend for themselves. The adult finally departs and the three juveniles stay behind on the lodge. I relax my watch until I hear the cackling once again and another adult comes swooping in. The feeding is not over yet. Once again the clacking of beaks ensues. The regurgitation. The feeding frenzy. But this adult does not have the patience of the first one and escapes the quickly escapes the clutch of the chicks. Once sated, the young ones quietly disperse. The first flies up over the waters and the nest, defecates in the air, and then alights on a log not far from the beaver lodge. An adult comes to sit with it, but doesn't stay long. The two other juveniles hang together on the lodge, one at each end. Stillness returns to the marsh. Two wood ducks parade past. Two turtles sun on a rock, too far away for my binoculars to identify them.

The clouds move in. I must get home to get my laundry off the line. I take one last sweep with my binoculars and move on my way. I am not a part of this world. I know.