Oops, I Made a Mistake.

Last Saturday, I took a short 3 mile day hike in Kensington with a group of bird enthusiasts.  I have been in the park several times to view the Sandhill cranes this spring and was embarrassed to find out, from Saturdays' hiking guide, that the nests I believed were made by Sandhill Cranes are actually nests of the Great Blue Heron.  I have reworked that particular chapter in the book I am working on and thought I should also share with you since I posted that excerpt on the blog site.
Sandhill Cranes are private and build their nests on the ground in the marsh.  I have sat on the park bench and watched those birds several times but the trees are just far enough away that I could not make out the color details (physics has helped me understand that reflection, refraction, focal point of image all play into the tricks my eyes can play when I let my mind work overtime).  The Blue Heron has a large size but shape, beak, and color are very different from the cranes I love to watch in the marsh.  I apologize for this careless mistake.


Another quick update:  My physics final is Thursday … still holding on to my “A” and I am very proud of myself.  I find the Math fascinating and have discovered that I “get it”.  There is so much going on in the invisible world of electromagnetic fields, wavelengths, light, charges, chemical reactions, atoms, electrons … okay, I’ll stop.  I have been told that I can be a nerd.  I am proud of that too.

Newton's First Law

This excerpt is from the novel I am currently working on.  The main character, Madison, has parked her car and is walking toward an established rural cemetery located on a hilltop surrounded by a protected wetland.

In contrast to her mood, she could not help but notice that nature was surging with the potential energy of life ready to burst.  Michigan’s early crocus had already poked through the half frozen ground – yellows and purples -  colorful, small flowers in brilliant shades, each bloom emanating loudly that yes, they were the precursors to full blown spring.   Buds formed into plump, red nodes on the Maples lining the side of the path.   Geese clamored at each other from the adjacent wetland area.  Honk … honk … an unpleasant sound in comparison to the trumpet repetition of the Sandhill Cranes that also inhabited the marshy area.  Kar-r-r-roo, kar-r-r-roo … their purring karrrroo call reminded her of the rolling ‘r’ in the French language.  She had recently returned from France and her struggle to communicate using the correct intonations of the local language had been difficult … well, not difficult, unsuccessful would be a better descriptor.   Although home, state side … seeing the cranes brought back memories of France, each thought a wave, undulating through her mind, bringing forth a conscious reflection of the French countryside.

From the thicket of the marsh, a crane duet reached a crescendo, seemingly begging her to delay her climb to the grave site and instead, walk closer to the water’s edge.  What matter the delay?  He was not there – and,  within her belief system, there was more probability that he could be honored by watching the birds; yes, more hope in that act than paying homage to a mound of dirt.   And … it did not matter where she was, location was only geography … the hurt traveled with her. 

Several cranes flew overhead but it was the continued harmonizing sounds from the brush that caused her to change direction.   After a few moments of concentrated study, she spotted the couple; their earthy tint was a perfect camouflage allowing them to hide from her in the wild fountain grass and dried cattails.  No green on the marsh as yet ... most plant life was still dormant.   How could she have missed them?   She marveled at their magnificent prehistoric size.

 There were only two birds; a lot of melody for only two, she thought.  Unlike most birds in which the male was easy to spot because his color shouted – yes, I am the male; both of these Sandhills were similar in markings, other than size, she could not tell them apart – a blend of grays and brown.  After stepping closer to get a better look, she decided that the female must be the smaller crane.  Small was an understatement though, each bird was over four feet tall and both had a brilliant rusty, red forehead.  Really, you guys are quite flamboyant.  

Taking the apartment last year in France, had kept her from enjoying Michigan’s spring.  Living abroad had carried the hope to write herself into a place where she could emotionally live and forget.  That intent had been as unsuccessful as her endeavor to master the rolling ‘r’ sound of the French tongue.  

With each step into the marsh, she broke through the thin, brittle layer of ice still clinging to the edges of the swamp until; finally, she stopped unable to go any further without soaking her hiking boots. 

 In the center of the water, a group of tall trees protruded from an insignificant clump of land.  This region was a protected nesting area for the Sandhills under the jurisdiction of the metro-park authority.  With the branches still naked, only the buds made the promise of forthcoming leaves, the unusually large crane nests were exposed.   In the topmost branches, she counted ten ... there were ten nests.   

“Wow,” she whispered. 

At that moment, a crane flew toward the treetop breeding area.  The head of the bird and its long neck were tucked into the sizeable body as it flew while the legs dragged horizontally behind.   Large wings (over six feet expanse) carried all of the weight gracefully to a stop.  Whoosh … whoosh …  it momentarily hovered before straightening its long, black legs to a vertical position to land on a limb, which, from where she stood, appeared too fragile to hold the splendid bird. 

These large winged species brought to mind the enormous Storks of France, also a symbol of spring.  While wandering medieval cities, she had often spotted an oversized nest high in the ramparts. Those nests had not seemed out of place on a castle wall; different here in Michigan where history was not a constant reminder.   From the window in her apartment in Colmar, a city in the Alsace region, she had been privy to a direct view of a stork nest located on the top of a medieval church.  The narrow street between her apartment and the rooftop made it possible for a very close observation of the mother feeding her young. 

Out in the marsh, she again caught sight of the singing couple; they had moved quite a distance away from her.  A Sandhill Crane could be nature’s pallet for the blends and hues of khaki and gray.  Subtle shades, with the bright red forehead, white cheeks and a long dark beak.  The birds walked through the brush slowly; carefully lifting each foot, knee joint bending back like a human elbow and then extending the three pronged foot forward.  The female stayed a short distance behind the male, both easily maneuvering through the dry stalks surrounded by mini patches of snow.  They would stop often, no hurry to their stroll, often the kar…rr...oo communication would take place:  kar...rroo – the male once; the female answered – kar...rroo, kar...rroo.  She knew the birds mated for life and both parents attended the young colt (the newborn bird) for several months.  That had been her intent too … to mate for life.

She continued walking around the marsh edge while keeping the cranes in sight.  The ground was still frozen below the surface, a bit spongy for about an inch but then firm.  Within a couple of weeks the edge of the bog would turn into a muddy mess.   Spring would open to summer– that was a constant – after winter there was always spring.  The birds were another of nature’s invariables –– each year the birds returned.   That too was geography.