In Bog-watching on April 20, 2014 at 2:28 pm
Peeping the Bog, April 20, 2104, Easter Sunday
It is small for an Easter Parade, just two Canada geese strolling down the icy avenue of Puposky Lake. She does not wear a bonnet, he does not sport a top hat, but they know where they are going. They will make their own Easter basket, fill it with their own eggs, each one a birth and a rebirth, an individual and a species, the resurrection of spring manifest in their steady promenade.
In Bog-watching on April 13, 2014 at 4:48 pm
Peeping the Bog: April 13, 2014
The song birds are returning: blackbirds and robins back from their migrations; goldfinches, purple finches, juncos, occasional winter visitors, are back to stay. They come and go from my feeders, back and forth from the oaks and maples on the hillside that are still bereft of any color, the buds of this year’s leaves still cloistered against the intransigence of this particular spring. The bog, too, remains static, though it has swallowed the snow and is certainly harboring, below my line of sight, the insistent shoots of Phalaris arundinacea, reed canary grass.
In Bog-watching on April 8, 2014 at 7:31 pm
Peeping the Bog, April 8, 2014
Swans on ice. Trumpeter or tundra? Impossible to know at the moment, as they wisely have their bills nestled into their back-feathers. Their camouflage is nearly complete; they are betrayed mostly by the shadows they cast on the ice, and I might have missed them altogether had I not been watching crows on ice, walking around on the bay as though it were a park. They pecked at the snow as they grazed along, perhaps finding some kind of food, though it seems unlikely. At least I know they are crows, not ravens (smaller than ravens, less regal in their presentation). The swans do not parse so easily. Both trumpeter and tundra are known here, sometimes in passing, sometimes in residence. But their distinctions are subtle, slight differences in the bill and the black leading up to the eyes, some difference in their calls, though variations within each species cross over into variations of the other. For today, I let go of my compulsion to identify and let them be just swans, settled onto the frozen water, floating on ice, an act of optimism, a gesture of faith.