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SaganagaJoe
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03/04/2016 11:03PM   (Thread Older Than 3 Years)
Reposted from the Bird Watchers forum:

Jack Frost has descended onto the South Sound region for a brief sojourn. Every evening for the past few days he has walked through the woods and town, strolling down to the water’s edge and leaving a cold snap in his path. Despite the chill lingering in the air, it is actually a pretty nice day outside. It seems that the coldest days are always the sunniest. At various times throughout the winter, cold walls of air descend from the mountains and valleys of Canada and settle with an icy blast onto our region.

As I head for the marsh on my bicycle, I feel the chilly air blast across my face, penetrating my flannel shirt. I am grateful for my warm gloves and stocking cap. Frost flies up from my bicycle wheels as I head into the woods. The tires contact the trail with a sharp rumble over the gravel and a more quiet, subtle crunch over the wood chips. The trail and surrounding woods are brittle from the frost. The standing water that has accumulated off the trail has frozen. I turn off the main trail and head down a smaller spur toward the west side of the marsh. I lay my bike down on the ground and sit down against the earthy trunk of a Douglas fir tree. Through barren twigs, I see the half-frozen marsh, temporarily devoid of life in the midst of winter’s cold.

But by no means has life permanently left the woods for the winter. As I sit and listen, birdsong cuts through the air, voices of all timbres, volumes, and tones singing their joy for all to hear. The sun is out and the air is still. Rain and wind have battered the marsh for days, replenishing it from the scorching sunrays and blistering heat of the summer. Now its ceaseless patter has momentarily stilled, leaving all creation singing for joy in the warmth and light of the sun.

A movement to my right catches my eye. A large brownish-bluish bird with an orange-flocked breast and orange-lined eyes nervously twitches on a tree branch. I look closer and recognize it as a Varied Thrush. On still mornings and afternoons, the buzzing whistles and fluty tremolos of this secretive bird ring through the hidden glades of the forest. This is not my first sighting of this bird, but I am excited to see it nonetheless. As it moves out of sight, I stand up to get a better look. It waits on the branch for a few moments longer, lets out one buzzy whistle, and then flies away into the forest.

I walk down by the marsh and notice the freshly gnawed stumps of a few saplings sticking out of the thin ice. As I lean forward for a closer look, I begin to think that the stumps and surrounding chips are a beaver’s work. This is exciting news if it is true. Perhaps beavers have once again returned to this corner of the Northwest, once again returning to the stomping grounds from which the Hudson’s Bay Company trapped them out. I decide to get closer to the marsh to see if I can find their dam. A relatively young, tall Douglas fir tree hangs out over the thin ice and dead rushes of Farrell’s Marsh. Seeing more gnawed saplings farther down the shore, I realize that I needed a better viewpoint to look out over the marsh. I look at the fir tree again, and the branches were within my reach. I grab a branch and pulled myself up. Step by step and hand over hand I climb high into the fir tree. About twenty feet off the ground I stop and admire the view. Farrell’s Marsh lay in the midst of the forest, with large masses of dead rushes and reeds sticking from the half-frozen water. The sunlight glistened on the ice with a blinding glare. I looked left and right for any signs of beavers.

Seeing nothing, I found a comfortable seat on several branches and continued to look and listen for the echoes of life within the marsh. I watched several birds, too far away for me to identify, as they foraged on dead branches and amidst the reeds. The tell-tale ringing call of a Douglas’s Squirrel penetrated the sun-washed grove where I was sitting. Clearly the sunshine had temporarily roused him from the silent rest that he normally enjoyed in the winter. A Northern Flicker took off from the high crest of another fir tree and headed into the forest.

In his essay “The Art of Seeing Things,” John Burroughs said, “Human and artificial sounds and objects thrust themselves upon us; they are within our sphere, so to speak: but the life of nature we must meet halfway; it is shy, withdrawn, and blends itself with a vast neutral background.” As I sat in the tree, I realize that I needed to wait patiently for nature to get close to me, not simply stand afar off and wait for nature to come to me. Sitting as I am twenty feet off the ground, I literally have a bird’s eye view of the marsh and forest groves. Now I need to wait and see what the Creator will show me today.

A movement on the ground catches my attention. I look down to see another bird trotting on the ice, pecking at the base of a sapling and periodically fluttering its wings as it reached higher and higher. I look closer at it for several minutes and then at my pocket bird guide. I can see that it was probably some kind of sparrow, overwhelmingly brown with a flocked breast and paler feathers around its eyes. It isn’t the most spectacular bird I have ever seen, but it enthralls me nonetheless. The fact that I can’t positively identify the bird reminds me that many of the wonders of creation will always be a mystery to mankind. Someday I may be able to identify this bird, but there will always be something for me to discover.

As I sit perfectly still against the tree trunk, a large Black-capped Chickadee landed on a branch quite near to me. I remained perfectly still. It moved from branch to branch before flying away. Then another chickadee landed, and another. Before I know what is happening, it seems as if the entire winter flock of roving birds has descended upon my tree and the grove around me. The air is filled with song. A Chestnut-backed Chickadee lands on a fir bough not six feet away from me, and after remaining there long enough for me to admire it, flies away. I turn around to see a Ruby-crested Kinglet, with its ruby crest hidden, before it flies away. Turning back, a Golden-crested Kinglet lands for a brief moment and then darts away, taken aback by this large and unfamiliar visitor to the heights of the forest.

I am completely surrounded by life. The book of the Creator’s word and the book of the Creator’s works both testify that He created all of the life that graces the forest around me, that He created it and called it good. While the curse of sin and evil has left the Creator’s works groaning and travailing until the final day of redemption, the fact that the Creator’s creation is still His and it is still good. As I sit amidst the grove with birds all around me, I think on the fact that the Creator is taking care of this world, including every single one of these birds, and that I can trust Him to take care of me as well.

One by one the bird flock moves to another part of the woods. A single Red-breasted Nuthatch remains, clinging to a branch above me as it forages for food. It eventually leaves as well. I descend from the tree, and after spending a few more blissful minutes exploring the woods, I return to my bike and speed off down the frozen trail, heading back to my warm home.
 
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