It was only a half mile to the beaver pond, an easy walk down a wide mowed path. The urge to go there for a sit spot session on a warm spring evening popped in to my mind during dinner. Dishes done, I grabbed my binoculars and camp chair, cut across the yard, angled through a stand of tall, slender, newly leafed-in beeches and maples, and headed down the path to the pond.

I found myself walking slowly, not due to a conscious decision, but more likely as a response to the time of day, the lower angle of the sun, the softer illumination, the longer shadows, to the sense that daylight was slowly sliding into night.

In a bush by the side of the trail a bird sang loud, clear phrases. I discerned a pattern; two bell like whistles, two chattery twitters, two clear high to low tones. This was the song of a Brown Thrasher, a spectacular mimic whose repertoire might include a thousand different song snippets.

Ahead, two brown lumps in the middle of the freshly mown grass. A quick glance through the binoculars revealed two rabbits peacefully munching grass. A rustling in the bushes, twigs snapping, a deer in its light tan summer coat, standing still, gazed at me with large, soft, brown eyes. I walked on. The deer slipped silently away.

A whiff of fragrance grabbed my attention. I suddenly felt like I was walking through a shopping mall and came up to the perfume counter. But these fragrances seemed cleaner and clearer, yet stronger and more compelling than any manufactured perfume. I looked up and down the trail and saw that I was walking through a vale of blossoms; Russian Olives trees and honeysuckle bushes blooming in profusion along both sides of the trail.

I stopped and studied the blossoms. The Russian Olive trees were covered with petite creamy-white flowers; the honeysuckles blanketed with delicate tubular flowers, some soft white, others light pink. I sampled the fragrance of each; a spicy clove-like sweetness from the Russian Olives, a sweet, sultry, fresh-melon aroma from the honeysuckles.

Inhaling and enjoying these fragrances I continued on and arrived at the beaver pond, one in a series of ponds stretching upstream, hidden wild ponds mere minutes away from paved streets, neat houses, freshly mowed yards, and a busy state highway. The still surface of the pond reflected the far shoreline, a crisp clear mirror image of trees, shrubs, reeds and grasses. I set up my chair, sat down, and began to take notes on all that I saw and heard.

Familiar bird songs sounded around me; the “sweet, sweet, sweet, I’m so sweet” of a Yellow Warbler, the rhythmic rolling “witchety” song of a yellowthroat, the plaintive mews of a catbird, and the chattery aria of a song sparrow. It was late May. The birds were established on their breeding territory, guarding their turf with song.

Canada geese honked softly from an upstream pond. A beaver swam by, tracing a silent V in the water. Five deer grazed peacefully in a lush green hillside hayfield beyond the pond. The melancholy coos of mourning doves floated down from an enormous drooping willow across the pond. A cloud of insects swirled in front of me.   A bull frog croaked intermittently.

Birds flew around the pond; grackles, big and black with shiny iridescent purple heads coursing and calling; red-wing blackbirds, the males flashing their brilliant orange wing bars, looping over the pond, perching on old reeds, and singing their clear “ konk-la-ree” song. I heard a squawk, looked up and saw a Great Blue Heron in flight, long wings flapping rhythmically, long head and beak protruding forward, long legs extended back like landing gear.

On an impulse I picked up my binoculars, scanned the top branches of the willow and spotted a bright orange and black Baltimore Oriole perched on an uppermost twig. Soon its melodious piping song joined the birdsong chorus. I loved these moments when it seemed as if intuition guided my gaze, told me where to look, and then rewarded me with a glimpse of beauty and the sound of a song.

A beaver swam by dragging a ten foot long sapling with a cluster of green leaves at the top. Figuring this was an opportunity to study beaver behavior up close, I locked on with my binoculars and watched as it swam steadily, branch held firmly in its teeth, on course, undeterred by obstacles, towards its lodge, an impressive dome of branches and twigs and mud.

Dark brown and as big as a medium-sized chocolate Labrador, the beaver climbed out of the water dragging the branch in its teeth. Deftly lifting the branch up to the top of the lodge, it made a few quick and decisive adjustments with the placement, released it, turned, climbed down the side of the lodge, slipped into the water, and swam off to retrieve another branch. The beaver looked like a decisive engineer at work, no need to double check the placement, just unerring and natural precision, and then on to the next task.

A puff of wind wafted the fragrance of the honeysuckles and Russian Olives into my nostrils. I felt enveloped by and bathed in sweet fragrance. I inhaled deeply and savored the perfumed air. There had been no rain for five days, no downpours to dampen the flowers, just sunshine to open the blossoms fully. This might be the best week of spring, maybe even the best day of the year to smell the full fragrance of these flowers.

I reflected that these fragrances, so pleasing to me, were, in fact, part of a busy, time-urgent process. The sweet aromas were designed to attract pollinators; bees, butterflies, beetles, moths, ants, and even birds. I gazed at the nearest honeysuckle and saw that it was loaded with bees, crawling over the flowers, spreading pollen, facilitating fertilization. In a few weeks this bush would be coated with tiny green berries, fruits that would ripen to a rich red in the summer sun.

Forty minutes passed and I could feel my mind and senses and nervous system settling. I began to discern songs that I hadn’t noticed before; a Swamp Sparrow’s reedy trill, a Redstart’s staccato burst, the buzzy call of a Blue-winged Warbler.

Three birds fluttered around the top branches of the big willow across the pond. A look through the binoculars revealed a trio of Cedar Waxwings, perching on branch tips, sallying out, snatching insects, perching again, snatching, feasting on the bugs. A volley of musical twitters sounded above me, a pair of tree swallows swooping, dodging, weaving, grabbing the mosquitoes that swarmed above the pond. A fluttering of wings ahead, an Eastern Kingbird perched on a snag that rose above the pond. It darted out, plucked bugs out of the air, settled back, darted and plucked again and again, feeding with ruthless efficiency.

The sun slipped below the horizon and daylight faded to last-light. A draft of cool air drifted downhill, the first hint of the approaching night-chill. The frogs, somehow knowing exactly when the sun set, began to tune up for their nighttime chorus of croaks and calls. Crickets started their steady chirping. Mosquitoes hummed around me.

My hour was up, yet I lingered. A part of me wanted to stay, pitch a tent, crawl into a sleeping bag, watch the final filaments of daylight fade, and listen to the soothing chorus of night sounds. How welcome it would be to cast away the tasks and obligations that awaited me just a short walk away and immerse myself in nocturnal solitude.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps I could do both; come to this wild beaver pond for rest and rejuvenation, and return home restored and refreshed. On a different day, at a different time, I could return for a different experience. But today I was glad that I had learned about fragrance week, a week that I would look forward to in coming years.

This sit spot session took place on May 24, 2017. The pictures of the blossoms and the path were taken on May 25, 2018.