Winter 2021-2022: Part 2 - Transition
As I type, it is 83 ° here in St. Louis on a sunny blue sky afternoon on the second day of March. The Spring Equinox is fast approaching on March 20, as is spring migration, but Winter is reluctantly letting go the reins to Spring despite the heat today. Stepping outside my house this morning, a melting mound of snow lingered, but most had melted away over the past week.
I decided to take a walk to take the pulse of things on this first day of what I call one of the wild's grand transitions, when the lives of so many are in great flux, like birds beginning to leave our area as winter is ending, some birds beginning to arrive, as spring is beginning and frogs announce it. For naturalists, transitions hold so much excitement. This particular transition between winter and spring might hold the most excitement for many, as winter can often cause us to sink into funks due to the short days and seeming dirth of life, as life sleeps, hidden from our view. There are peaks in the cyclical lives of the wild that are exquisite to experience, periods when it seems the most moth and insect species abound as in summer in St. Louis or the most bird species are migrating through in May, but those liminal, in between spaces, the transitions between the seasons, like now, when a grand buildup is just beginning again as the seasons overlap, when each day a new plant peaks out, a new bird species arrives, a moth flies from the decaying leaves, and then slowly more wild things appear on the move, snakes slither forth and turtles bask and all manner of life unfolds again, those days are terribly exciting, each one holding a small surprise, life returning, like a long term marriage that is forever made fresh, a love affair that waned and is now waxing, one that repeats every year, everything changing yet remaining the same.
With that in mind, I walked to the park that is so dear to me, the one I grew up with and have lived near almost all my life - Carondelet Park. Deliberately buying a home only a few blocks away was the best decision my partner Andy and I ever made.
First thing, as I walk a few city blocks to the park, I encounter hammering and roofers working on a home on the way. People are out in force, walking dogs, exercising, gardening. Kids are hollering in the playground of the nearby school. But it is the sound of the Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice that pulls at me, tugs me eagerly toward the park. Entering the park, I encounter the gatekeeper, the large sprawling elm, still in her winter dress, not a hint of spring on her. She welcomes everyone at the northwest entrance. I smile in greeting and gratefulness. Hearing a single 'psst', I look around for a Brown Creeper on the arm of the Elm, find him and greet him with a 'Hello there." Two Golden-crowned Kinglets, not wanting to be left out, greet me with three adamant, "See, See, See" calls and I respond, "Yes, I see, see, see you!" as I locate them in another Elm. A Sweetgum tree nearby has American Goldfinch dripping from balls yet to fall, balls with yummy seeds the Goldfinch love. The Goldfinch, too, give a sweet baby cry of a greeting.
I've entered my hallowed grounds. Walking the path I usually take once I pay my respects to the Elm, I walk counterclockwise around the inner perimeter. I check for the fearsome foursome in the little lake called Horseshoe that appears at the top of the hill beyond the Elm. The fearsome foursome, made up of two loud Swan Geese, a large white domestic goose folks call Frankie due to his blue eyes (Frankie Sinatra) and a rogue Ross's Goose the three adopted over a year ago, are walking the edge. The lake is lined with numerous trees, but one in particular is luring me along, the one the Great Horned Owls are nesting in again. Turning my attention that way, I suddenly notice a large bird fly to the cavity. Whew!
It's only Mama Great Horned. She must have been enjoying a respite from the rascally white fluff ball youngster who popped his head out yesterday. I watch her perched on the edge of the cavity, looking around, checking whether anyone has noticed her before she carefully walks into the cavity and drapes herself over the youngster. I've been watching her and her mate raise young for almost tens years. Every year is different - some years they've raised one owl, others two, and sometimes none. As far as we can tell, there is definitely one this year, but there could easily be two or three. I try not to watch her too long, as she's very sensitive to attention - and I watch from a great distance, not wanting to reveal her location or bother her too much.
Walking past her, I surreptitiously wave at her as she glares down at me, but my path goes right by her. I try to act like I'm not looking, out of respect, but it's difficult. She's incredibly stunning. Once past her, I immediately check out the bridge over the lake to see if the first Phoebes have arrived, but I notice none, just more Mallards than usual - and courting. I'm not fond of what comes after the courting. The ganging up of many Mallards on one female is a disturbing site as they almost drown her, yank at her, vye for her. I don't linger as the sound of gargling Rusty Blackbirds rescues me from that potential sight. Up ahead, near the playground, a large flock of them are on the ground where a spot of water and decaying leaves mingle. Joy is mine as I watch them bathe and flip and toss over leaves, looking for yummies to eat.
My entire route through the park is sprinkled with American Robins. The big numbers have not arrived yet, but they will be here soon. The ones that have arrived early are already dueling, courting, and building nests. At one point, I stop to watch the birds around the edge of an ice patch melting deep inside one of the many sinkholes of the park. Dark-eyed Juncos are most numerous, but a Fox Sparrow is hop scratching at the ground for beetles! An early delight! Around the time of the Spring Equinox, explosive numbers of Fox Sparrows, on their way to the tundra, will stop over for a two- to three-day stint of rest and replenishment in our backyards and parks. It is a singular phenomenon I wait for every year and feel lucky to catch, as there will literally be hundreds of them everywhere. White-throated Sparrows accompany the single Fox Sparrow. Their numbers will increase, too, as Spring takes hold. Two Blue Jays holler and scatter the birds when they notice me snooping. They fly off a short distance, all show, as they are back right away, as are the Juncos and sparrows.
Looking skyward, I spy a single Turkey Vulture, an early harbinger of change, flying off in the distance. When the Turkey Vultures return to the skies of the city, I thrill, as I know Winter is truly loosening its grip. The pulse of the park is beginning to rise, and the return of the birds to the city is happening. There is sadness, too, as I know the overwintering Short-eared Owls and Rough-legged Hawks on the outskirts of the city will abandon us for breeding grounds farther North, as other overwintering birds like the ducks, geese, and swans will, too. My gratitude to the overwintering birds has always been immense, as their presence and beauty and strength has held me steady through the days of less light, through the days leading up to this day of transition.
I know that soon, in a few days, the first Pine Warblers will trickle into the area, if they are not already here, and begin the glorious ascension from the neotropics that crescendos in May, when the number of songbirds migrating will reach into the billions. Many of these birds will stay the summer and breed on the outskirts of the city. Some species will even breed in the city, but far fewer. Those that breed in the city are very special to me, the Warbling Vireos, the Blue-gray Gnatcatchers, the Great Crested Flycatchers, the Eastern Wood-Pewees, to name a few, but so are resident species and their young. Fledgling Blue Jays are the bomb! I know that soon, maybe this weekend, I will find an open field and watch the outrageous three hundred-foot spiraling dives of American Woodcocks at dusk. I know that near the end of March, a splash of egrets and herons will return to communal nesting spots in the city known as rookeries – Great Egrets, Little Blue Herons, Snowy Egrets and Black-Crowned Night-Herons - and on their way there, some will visit Carondelet. I know that hundreds of American White Pelicans will soon be swirling past overhead and as thousands of ducks migrate to their northerly breeding grounds, some will visit the little lakes of this park, too. I know the Tree Swallows and Barn Swallows will return. I only know all this due to healing of the rupture from the wild that occurred for me as a child, a rupture so deep and painful it took years for me to find my way back, but find my way I did.
And even though I know all this, I am in no hurry anymore. I used to be. My sense of urgency in the beginning of discovering all this led me to attempt to gobble it all up, every season, as if it would never happen again, as if I could not trust this magic, as if it would disappear, as if I could never get enough. It was as if someone let me loose at a feast, after famine. I gorged, frantically, making myself sick. When I settled down, finally, after the first few years, I found a deeper sense of intimacy with the wild, a more peaceful way of being present, of trusting. And even though it may disappear and I will die soon, as we all will of something, I know I want to linger in the arms of the unfolding of it all, taking my time to really drink it in, each little detail, each small emerging presence. I never take this gift for granted. So, every year, every season, every transition, almost every day, I am out there, with the wild that has found a way to adapt, as I have, to the chaos humans have wrought, checking on them, rejoicing in them. We are all in this together. May it continue, come what may.
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