View from the Bottom of the Boat
There were three of us, and only two seats for paddlers. Being new to birding, I happily relinquished my seat and took up my position with the rest of the cargo on the floor of the boat. From here I could concentrate on the sights and sounds of the marsh.
Our canoe carved us a path amid cattails and loosestrife, and the water began to offer up its secrets; and the language it used was bird song. The zealous red-wing, the questioning pewee, the persistent vireo, all spoke to me of a new world. Here, air and forest were of one fabric, spun by winged weavers.
The names of birds passed above my head as my companions matched each song with its singer: Marsh Wren, Virginia Rail, Phoebe, Veery, Oriole. My companions were patient and the birds were cooperative, and soon I began to recognize connections between songs and names, like learning the voices of new friends.
As the sun peaked toward noon the wind picked up and the birds quieted. The paddlers guided our craft to shore, and we left our winged friends to continue the rhythm of their day.
Much time has passed since that May morning. One of the trusty guides from that day is now my husband, and he and I paddle our own canoe. But on particular May mornings, as mist rises on a pond or marsh, I am brought back to that day long ago, when the natural world began to reveal its secrets, and when I first began to learn its language, the language of bird song.
Love it!