New Beginnings

Clouds over Lower Dry Creek, Walla Walla Valley                  © Diane B. Reed

    
     It appears that Spring is finally settling in, despite some cold overnight temperatures and occasional frost. Irrigation is in full swing in the Walla Walla Valley and planted fields are a lush shade of green. We've cleaned up winter debris from the garden and the flowers and grasses are slowly beginning to emerge. The last daffodils (the ones in the shade of the back yard) have bloomed and the trees are beginning to leaf out.
     It's transition time around the pond. The Great Blue Heron, which has been foraging in the fields for mice and other prey is stopping by the pond to look for fish. We've had a pair of Common Mergansers which have been having some luck diving for small fish. In a few weeks they'll be stocking the pond with fish for the fishing derby and for the season. We expect the Ospreys to arrive back in the Valley about the same time. While they're nesting and feeding their young they'll be regulars at the pond, taking turns fishing every couple of daylight hours.

Red-Tailed Hawks nesting  © Diane B. Reed

     Nesting is already underway for many birds. A pair of Red- Tailed Hawks have already taken up residence in a large tree on Lower Dry Creek Road, and I hear that the Great Horned Owls have already moved into their nest hole at Bennington Lake. No sign of the babies yet, but it won't be long before they're peering out at the lake. 
     The air is full of bird song around the pond.  Brightening goldfinches are coming into their summer plumage and showing off for potential mates.
     As we move into Spring, I leave you with the inspiration of Mary Oliver's poem.    

 

Such Singing in the Wild Branches 

Spring flowers at Bennington Lake                          © Diane B. Reed

by Mary Oliver 

It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness—
and that's when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree—
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing—
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky— all, all of them

were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last

for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then— open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.