As morning dusk moves slowly aside to give orange skies a foothold on the day, the world awakens with movement, sound, and color. The nightbirds slip back to their places among the branches, roosting off the warm hours until twilight again welcomes them to their work. Bats melt away, going somewhere, everywhere, nowhere, all at once. I am never able to see the last one drift back into the woods; they simply vaporize into the morning, taken up by the warming air and sun.
Crows stake their claims on the sky, dark shapes against the blue, never flying as they ought to, instead taking the long way everywhere they go. Osprey fly, heads cocked, eyes on the water, waiting for nothing I can see. They need no ruffle of water, no risers, no perceptible gulp from the fish. They know exactly where the fish are, how deep they are, whether the meal will need to be dived for or can be skimmed from the surface with little more than two wet talons. Eagles, ever the vigilant scavengers, dot the pine snags, never missing a trick. The yearling birds call incessantly, a nasal cheeping, to their parents. Adults and young look like three-dimensional kites as they glide overhead, seeming purposeful and single-minded in their flight. Though I am rather uninterested in eagles, I did sit in my kayak for quite a long time watching a yearling bird take a bath and goof around in the water before he flew off, a clumsy addition to the afternoon clouds. When he took off, after having tolerated my presence for such a long time, it seemed as if he was headed right at me--somewhat unnerving, to say the least. The light in which I watched him was perfect for the colors of his plumage--late afternoon is best for photographing everything, I think, but this light lent itself especially well to him. His yellow feet and beak glowed, and the orange sun warmed the mottled cream and brown of his feathers.
Dragonflies are the constant. They accompany me on the water everywhere I go. They perch on my kayak, a half dozen at once; they rest on my shoulder, the brim of my hat, the lid of my Nalgene, and sometimes my knuckles as I paddle. They are there when the mosquitoes thicken the dusk, when the dreaded deerflies find me, when I stop to rest in shade. They appear extremely social; busy chasing each other out of a claimed territory or congregating on a log all day long. Odonates of the same species also appear to hang out together--I often see ten Bluets or Pondhawks clustered together on a rock or stump, changing places and re-orienting themselves toward or away from the sun. I could watch them all day. There have been times when I have lost a half-hour in Odonata watching. I don't think, in old age, I will look back on my life and feel that I spent too much time watching dragonflies.
As evening dusk rolls in, the bats are back. Just as they disappeared without contrail in the morning, come twilight they are back again, with no wake behind to trace their coming. Mayflies appear, inches above the water, fumbling their way to the nearest branch to fully dry and await the swallows and bats, never far from a hatch. Again the hum rises from the woods, warning us away from one last portage, one final tromp through the pine carpets in search of bolete, amanita, or oyster. We heed the warning, pack up camera, fly-rod, our treasures both real and imagined, and paddle our way home. To home we trudge, reluctant to give up another day, anxious for the happy fire awaiting, and already plotting our assault on tomorrow. This is our home for one week in actuality, but our truest and most hopeful rest for the balance of the year, if only in spirit.
