A Gift

Last night, at dusk, I heard what I knew from years of my father recording bird songs, a Western Meadowlark. I pulled out his old field journal and thumbed through, searching his entries for the first weeks of April:

April 2, 2002, he wrote: Heard the song before I spotted it--a series of melodic, flute-like whistles ending with a gurgle. The young male landed on the fencepost on the northern end of Shriver's field, yellow throat, chest and belly divided by the unlikely and unmistakable black V--like a medalist's ribbon. First of the season.

Last night's song outside my window felt like a gift; a comforting message from my father, telling me that he is not gone too far away.

Red-Winged Blackbird

This afternoon I walked Nellie, the neighbor's border collie, out along the fire road to the marsh where we stood and watched a female red-winged blackbird strip last year's cattails of their long ribbon-like leaves to build her nest. Five or six other females scavenged through the marsh grass for nesting material while the lone male sat puffed up with pride and sang conk-a-ree! to his harem.

Hawks nest

There is a jar of flight feathers on my bedroom windowsill; I used to grab a fistfull in each hand and stand at the open window waiting for the wind to carry me away. But at that point, 'away' was just a concept and always involved coming back.

I read somewhere that the feather evolved form the frayed ends of ancient reptilian scales. From scale to feather; what an unfathomable idea.

Today, I walked the stony path down into the ravine where my father and I would go to watch for a pair of red tail hawks to reappear each spring. Two years ago the female returned on her own and left the nest to build a new one along the western slope. The empty nest still sits high in the cottonwood tree waiting for new tenants.

A Beginning

Last night I pulled out my father's old field journal from the years he spent observing and cataloguing the myriad of birds who came to nest in our corner of the state. The brown leather-bound notebook has partially split along the spine and the pages are stained from exposure to damp weather, but the rich, mushroomy scent and clear, sturdy handwriting summoned Dad's presence to the quiet room with me.

Opening to the page dated March 20, 1998, I found his brief notes on a song sparrow he spotted in a shrub along the edge of the neighbor's apple orchard. He wrote:

A cheerful fellow, russet and grey, stuttered and trilled as I stood, entranced.

And so, today, I set out to find entrancement.