Quietly, I opened the kitchen door of the old farm house, stepped down two well-worn concrete steps, past the old stone well house and into a circle of illumination cast by a bright fluorescent farm light. Crunching across a grass overgrown gravel driveway, I strode by a dark red barn and a rounded concrete silo foundation, all of it barely visible in the predawn light. I continued across the dew-wet grass of an abandoned pasture and reached my destination, a faded white lawn chair I had set up the night before on the bank of the Crawfish River.

I sat down and took in the view. Directly ahead, two silver-gray canoes rested upside down on the grass. In my imagination the canoes looked ready for a paddle on the river, a river that meanders east and south and joins the Rock River which in turn merges with the Mississippi. An image of pioneers canoeing and rowing along the river came to mind. Then more images emerged, scenes further back in time, Native Americans in birch bark canoes and dugouts paddling, journeying, hunting, and harvesting up and down the length of the Crawfish.

This was a river with a history. In the dim morning light it seemed almost as if faint traces and subtle vibrations of all of those who had travelled the river in the past now lingered in the threads of mist floating above the still gray water. I could almost hear the splash of paddles and sounds of voices. I could almost see their boats slicing through the water, could almost pick up on the emotional energy linked to their plans, motives and concerns.

In front of me the river widened into two long parallel ponds then narrowed to flow under a bridge.   Trees and bushes of all sizes, shapes, and heights flourished along both banks. Next to and extending into the river grew a thick green band of cattails, marsh hay and smartweed. Patches of green duck weed covered the still inlets, quiet water the steady current couldn’t reach.

A car, headlights on, sped down the hill and across the bridge on County Road DG, the old road that linked the farm to the village of Fall River, Wisconsin. Another car followed. Folks hurrying to work I thought. An airplane, lights blinking, whooshed high above in the sky where the last pinpricks of starlight were slowly fading in the approaching daylight. Far away a train rumbled down the tracks; its mournful whistle pierced the great quiet.

I settled back in my chair, took a sip of hot Assam Tea, and reflected with a smile that this had been one of the easiest sit spots to reach, a mere 50 yards from the door across a well-lit yard. Now, I reminded myself to keep it simple; no expectations, no activity, just sit still, open my senses, just look, listen, smell, and feel.

It was fifteen minutes until sunrise, but I could hear that the birds were already on the move. Far beyond a cornfield two crows cawed. A flock of geese, honking steadily, flew high overhead. A shadowy blur buzzed low over the open water, a kingfisher, chattering loudly. Nearby a catbird mewed, a blue jay jayed, a robin tutted, and a white-breasted nuthatch voiced its nasal “ank, ank, ank”. Across the river, I heard red-winged blackbirds calling “check, check, check.”   A little band of chickadees squeaked back and forth as they flitted through trees in front of me.

The still, dry, chilly, 42 degree morning air felt clean and fresh on my face. I inhaled a mélange of smells; woodsy fragrances, the sweet fecund odor of mud and marsh, and now and again a whiff of that invigorating, refreshing. negative ion air that hovers above flowing water.

Soon it was 6:46, the official time for sunrise, but down in the river valley where I sat, beneath the sloping hills of corn and soybean fields no bright orb had risen. Yet slowly, inexorably, the pre-sunrise light spread. Slender strands of yellow and orange and pink appeared above the horizon. As the illumination increased I felt rising, sparkling sensations in my heart and chest, feelings of joy, a sense of resonance with the rhythm of the rising sun.

As the light increased the tempo and the volume of the morning chorus picked up. I heard the mournful “oo-eek” of a female wood duck, the cheerful “per-chik-o-ree” of goldfinches in flight, the loud insistent “wicka, wicka, wicka” of a flicker, the tinny descending rattle of a downy woodpecker, and an unusual and unfamiliar call, the primitive, rolling, bugled, far-carrying “garoo-a-a-a” of sandhill cranes.

Suddenly, the sun surged above the horizon. Bright angled sunlight illuminated the greens of the grasses, reeds and leaves and revealed the blues of river water and sky. The bird chorus intensified. It was an electric moment. I felt immersed in and surrounded by a vast and powerful vitality, a panorama permeated with life-force, a scene filled with hope, with the promise of rebirth.

Spurred on by the rising sun the birds swung into full action mode. Across the river, a flock of twenty or more redwings, the males black with bright red-orange epaulets, the females plain brown, fluttered down from low branches to the cattails where they perched and swayed on the slender stems. I could sense their restlessness, their urge to gather into flocks, flocks that would grow in numbers, instinct driven flocks of older and younger birds, preparing for their long perilous journey south.

I had slept restlessly during the night worried about waking up on time. When my alarm chimed I had struggled to lift my creaky body from its comfortable lair beneath the covers. But, now, at this moment when the sun rose, when the very first rays of direct light and warmth touched my face, when I felt a celebration of life all around me, I was grateful to be up. And, I wondered why I didn’t get up more often to see the sunrise and greet the day.

The nearby sound of geese honking pulled me from my reverie. I looked up and saw two geese flying above river. They began to circle over the open pond area, descended slowly, set their wings, and glided down behind a stand of trees. Then I heard two soft splashes as they landed.

The calls of sandhill cranes carried once again through the morning air. Eager to see one, I swiveled, scanned and spotted a trio in flight, large birds with a seven-foot wingspan, long slender necks, spiked bills, long legs extended straight behind them. Spellbound, I watched them fly gracefully on a level line, strong wing strokes, gray sun-lit plumage, winging over a field of tall, ripening, yellow-tan corn stalks.

I didn’t feel the wind start up, but when I glanced at a patch of grass I saw the slender stems sway ever so slightly heralding the onset of the day breeze. Soon stronger puffs of wind arose that rustled the cattails. Then, a steadier breeze from the northwest developed, a breeze that stirred the branches and rattled the leaves dislodging a few brown and yellow leaves that slowly fluttered to the ground.

More birds on the move. A pair of cardinals called “tik, tik, tik” as they moved through the trees. A tiny bird darted out of a bush and down into the reeds, maybe a marsh wren. A robin landed in a tree, tutted, flapped over to the next tree and tutted again.   A catbird following the robin’s path flew and perched and mewed from branch to branch. Two more little birds popped out of the bushes, then dove back down. A single complex song followed. Were they warblers or kinglets?

I realized I was sitting in prime bird habitat. The band of trees and shrubs and reeds bordering flowing water was ideal terrain. And I had a front row sea for a parade of birds moving up and down the river, a perennial parade that had been flying, perching, calling, singing, feeding, and mating along the banks of Crawfish River for centuries.

A glance at my watch revealed that my hour was winding down. My hands were cold and numb. It was getting harder to grip the pencil and write my notes. The warmth of the ascending sun still couldn’t overcome the depth of the morning chill.

A school bus, bright and yellow in the morning sunshine, rumbled down the county road. The bus rolled over the bridge, slowed, the air brakes sighed, and it came to stop at a corner in the road. The door swung open. The loud, carefree, voices of children ready to start their school day carried across the river.

This was a good time to end my sit spot session I thought, a good time to head back inside the farm house, warm my hands over the wood stove, sip a cup of hot, black coffee, eat breakfast and think about all those people over the all the years who had started their day in the bright, cozy kitchen where the windows offered a view of the tree lined banks of the Crawfish River.

This sit spot session took place on September 26, 2018 at the Sauer family farm in Fall River, WI.