It was that morning in October, the one after a night of heavy rain and strong wind that knocked down the leaves and now the bare branches looked more like November and it was no longer possible to think that somehow the warm days of October might go on forever.

As I walked across my yard in the dim, gray, pre-dawn light I saw the gray-black, skeletal silhouettes of ash and maple trees, silent forest sentinels that would have to wait until next May for a new cloak of leaves to sway and dance and rustle in the wind.

The sound of my footsteps was muffled by a layer of rain-soaked leaves.  I was heading to the beaver pond for an early morning, hour long sit spot with no agenda or theme in mind.  I just wanted to sit still, observe fully, and see what I might learn.

Subtle Surprise

Night-time silence still surrounded me as I stepped onto the wide, mowed, downhill path that led to the beaver pond.  From a nearby bush I heard a faint, hesitant tink, tink, tink. Seconds later came an answering tink, tink.   I checked my watch, 6:45, more than a half hour until sunrise.  It seemed too early and too dark for the birds to sing.

The tink, tink, tink calls grew louder, clearer, more emphatic and confident.  It was a male and female cardinal waking up, starting their day, calling back and forth, staying in touch as they began to flutter and forage for food.

And then, as if the cardinals had broadcast an avian reveille, more songs and calls broke the nighttime quiet.  A robin called tut, tut, tut, a catbird mewed, blue jays cried jay, jay, jay.  Nearby I heard soft, faint tseet, tseet, tseet calls.  Sparrows I thought.  And then the lovely, unmistakable song of a white throated sparrow; a clear whistled, old Tom Peabody, Peabody, Peabody filled the morning air.

I was surprised.  This song was normally sung in the spring on breeding territory. Maybe it was a young bird, practicing.  A few minutes later I heard another springtime song, a song sparrow singing a sprightly maids, maids put on your tea kettle-lettle-lettle.  I felt as if I was hearing a spring chorus in the middle of October.

Arriving at the edge of the beaver pond, I set up my camp stool and settled in hoping to hear more of this surprising morning chorus.  But no more spring songs sounded, just regular calls from birds on the move shifting into their morning routine.

What had this fleeting spring song fest been all about?  The only explanation that came to mind was that the birds must be hard-wired to respond to the break of day with song. To me these songs sounded like a celebration, seemed like a gift of musical beauty, felt like a spiritual reminder of the miracle of life starting another day. 

At that moment I was glad I had woken up early in the dark and was out in nature to hear this fleeting chorus.  At the same time I wondered why I wasn’t up at daybreak every day. It seemed that “getting up with the birds” was both healthy and natural. 

Mallards on the Make

Slowly and gradually the light grew brighter.  Gray clouds scuttled southward.  A crow cawed. A red-bellied woodpecker called a clear, resonant queeah, queeah, queeah.  A dusky brown song sparrow fluttered in front of me, perched on a stem of grass, and then flew on.  A female wood duck called a plaintive, ascending oo-eek, oo-eek.  A beaver swam across the pond; brown nose, eyes and ears breaking the surface, carving a V across the still water.  I heard splashes on the far side of the pond, ducks landing I thought.  Then I heard quacks, nasal veep, veep calls, and throaty chuckles. 

With my binoculars I scanned the far edge of the pond and spotted four mallards swimming, two drakes with luminous green heads and two mottled brown hens.  The drakes were chasing each other, heads down in the water, charging and counter charging and at the same time chasing one of the hens.  I was surprised.  I thought courtship behavior occurred in the spring.

I watched them for ten minutes chase and dive and heard them quack and chuckle and flap and splash.  Because I was sitting still the ducks were unaware of my presence and I was able to see them in their natural state.

Suddenly the four mallards jumped up from the water, took flight amidst a chorus of quacking, and seconds later splashed down on the next upstream beaver pond most likely to continue their courtship drama.

The light had been too dim and the ducks had moved too quickly to get a picture, but several days earlier I had walked by the beaver pond and snapped this photo of a mallard pair peacefully basking in October sunshine.

I read later that mallards pair up in October and November. What I saw were two drakes, plumage at an iridescent peak, blood stream loaded with testosterone, bobbing, weaving and showing off to attract a female while battling each other.  If it went well for a drake and he was found attractive by a female she would nod her head several times and follow him as he swam off.  The pair would migrate south and remain together through the winter.  In spring they would fly north to a breeding ground selected by the female where they would engage in mating rituals after which the female would build a nest and raise the ducklings.

I also read that in the spring things get complicated for mallards.  The drakes are on the prowl for extra-relational mating opportunities and unpaired males will go after any hen they can find sometimes in a rough fashion.  The hens in turn may spread their genetic options by having eggs fertilized by different drakes and also seem to have an internal mechanism to deflect sperm from unwanted males.  Pretty complex and pretty different from geese that mate for life, but the system seemed to be working for mallards as they are widespread and their population is stable.

A Key

The light of the approaching day grew brighter.  Swatches of pink and rose appeared in the sky.  Looking around I could see colors in the landscape; green grasses, tan reeds and brown faded goldenrod flowers.  A white-breasted nuthatch sang a cheerful ank, ank, ank.  Another robin tutted. Behind me I heard the flutter of tiny wings.  Glancing up, I saw two blue jays flying overhead followed by a flock of at least 25 robins. 

I loved these moments when I happened to look up and saw birds in flight.  Although the view lasted only a few seconds, it told a story, in this case the story of robins flocking together for winter, some flocks migrating south and some remaining in northern woods.

People ask me if deep knowledge of birds is necessary for good nature observation. No, not really.  A person could be into insects, or wildflowers, or trees or shrubs and be similarly pulled into the pulse of life.  But birds are plentiful, moving, and exquisitely responsive to climate, habitat, time of day, and the seasons of the year.  Their behavior tells the story of surrounding nature.  Bird songs and calls and behavior add layers to the story.  Observing birds, knowing a few things about them is like having a key to open the door to a nature connection. 

You don’t have to be an expert to use this key.  In fact no matter how much you know there is always someone out there who knows more.  Plus research keeps revealing more and more fascinating information about birds. Just start with what you know.  Listen and observe and you will likely learn something new every time you go out.

Changes

A breeze arose, puffs of wind from the northwest.  I felt a chill on my cheek.  Ahead of me, slender grass stems swayed with each breath of wind, tiny wind meters.  The breeze carried the smells of water, and grass and pine boughs to my nostrils.

I watched as the sky colors changed from pink to fiery orange and yellow and then to pale blue. The rising sun, looking like a tiny yellow ball peaked through the bare branches across the pond.  Once the sun finally lifted above the horizon it seemed to grow quickly in size and ascend rapidly.  A minute later I felt the first rays of sun-warmth touch my cheek, one of my very favorite sensations.

Return

My hour was up.  I wandered over to take a closer look at the beaver dam in part to marvel at its construction and in part to project some sense of gratitude to the beavers for creating such a life-supporting habitat.  I spotted a low path through the brush, a little tunnel, grasses pressed down by beaver bellies as they busily made trip after trip carrying freshly cut branches for their dam and twigs and shoots of willow and alder for their winter food.

Walking back up the trail toward my house, I could see the curving, irregular line of my earlier footsteps in the wet grass. The sunlight, behind me now, cast a luminous light upon the lingering orange, yellow, red and brown leaves.

Soon, I arrived in my backyard and saw my house ahead looking cozy and inviting in the morning light.  I realized that I was chilled after sitting still for an hour in the cool morning air. The idea of sitting by the fireplace and sipping a cup of hot coffee sounded very appealing.  It was good to be out in nature and it was also good to return home.

This sit spot was conducted in Dyberry Township, Wayne County, PA at sunrise on October 17, 2021.  You can read about more of my sit spots, wander walks and nature connections on this blog and in my book The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning available at Amazon.com and through Shanti Arts Publishing. 

The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning: Harvey, John: 9781947067592: Amazon.com: Books

The Stillness of the Living Forest, John Harvey (shantiarts.co)

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