Sparrows trade places and Morels come

As the spring comes on, we continue to learn this place and its ways of being. The marsh marigolds are taking back the marsh, obscuring our little boards, making the footing less sure. The two dominant voices in the marsh lately are the musical Rose-breasted Grosbeak and the loud monosyllable of the Great Crested Flycatcher. The widgeda widgeda widgeda of the Common Yellowthroat is still a minor presence, so we're expecting more of this tribe to arrive.

Because I've moved around so much, I've never had a chance to become so familiar with the life history of a place. A week ago, when I walked through the Aspen stand and came out the other side among the autumn olives, I knew immediately the familiar and welcome voice of the Blue-winged Warbler. A pair of them were talking, reminding me of their faint in-and-out half-buzz, half-song. What it is they like about this particular place half-way up our Daisy Slope I don't know, but this is precisely where they nested last year. A pair of Catbirds also arrived the same day and set up their shop just to the east of the Blue-wings, just as they did last year. These are not minor events. If someone flies here from thousands of miles away to sing and make babies, and does so every year and at about the same time in the same bushes, my ears are up and I'm saying, "Hey, you, welcome back."

Alison had become a little annoyed with the White-throated Sparrows on the ground outside our bedroom window because they woke us every morning at first light with their "Poor Tom Peabody, Peabody, Peabody." They really were incessant. But we knew they were heading farther north, so at dawn on May 5, we understood the silence. They all headed out at the same time, having been with us from April 25 until May 4. It was a smart bit of stage craft--you have to admit--when on the evening of the 4th, the first White-crowned Sparrow landed on our porch railing. Now they're singing "I am not a Phoebe" over and over, and they're here for the season. And just two days ago, the Nashville Warbler arrived and took the same hill it occupied last year. I have to make a map.

The morels have begun. They'll run their course in a week or so, so there's all the more reason for vigilence. This is the season for looking down and stepping carefully. The wildflowers also keep you looking down and stepping carefully. I have learned several this week: the Wood Anemone, Selkirk's Violet, the Northern White Violet, and the Common Blue Violet. I spent a morning across the river with my Newcomb's wildflower guide, sitting among the wild leeks and the fallen ancient river birches. I almost sat on the Jack-in-the-Pulpit, the only one I saw that day. Now we know to look for them. As I sat there quietly, our deer herd began to emerge from the marsh and run directly toward me. My first thought was to let them run by in silence, but when the first three came within eight feet of me, I had to speak up to prevent the other twelve or so from trampling me. That was a really indignant dozen deer, with their stamping and snorting. Pissed off!

Botanizing in a river bottom is a timeless way to put in a morning.