Thanks for this, "Zank".
In the past week, this baby-bird has been watching the marsh grasses of his momma-bird turning brown at about the same rate as your Poquoson's.
I've been flapping ineffectively after her these past few days to keep by her side and need to stop halfway to catch my breath.
Your piece helps put things in perspective and acknowledge that I won't be catching up with her on her inevitable ascent.
Peace.
I just went out for a walk this evening and noticed the marsh grasses in the
Poquoson river are beginning to change for the season. I live in southeastern
Virginia near the ocean, the Chesapeake Bay, and the confluence of several
large rivers, mainly the York and the James. It is a beautiful area, it must have
been quite a site to Captain John Smith and Pocahontas back in their day.
I have noticed over the years that the marsh grasses, which for some reason
I used to think were ugly, change more often than the four seasons, they look
different at least once a month. Today on August 13th they suddenly looked a
much darker brown than on August 12th, going from maybe a Crayola Burnt Sienna to a Raw Sienna, with some areas of even Raw Umber.
Pocahontas may have noticed the "Colors of the Wind," but I wonder if she
ever paid attention to the "Colors of the Marsh Grasses". Like a lunar monthly
calendar cycle they are nature's way of signaling change, and we are powerless
to slow it down. Over time we lose loved ones to age and the cycle of birth
brings us new joy to replace the sorrow, and the marsh grasses paint a gorgeous
portrayal of our harmony with our surroundings, a metaphor of our time on this
planet.
At 6:03PM I stumbled upon two large birds I had rarely seen before, they
looked like Herons or Egrets of this area but were neither blue nor white, they
were grayish-brown. As I approached the larger mom flew straight up into an
ancient Virginian Live Oak, and the smaller one tried to follow. He flew up at
an unusual angle and didn't make it, stopping halfway, looking out of breath if that's possible, his long beak out of proportion to his gangly frame. Strange
to see flying lessons in mid-August, most are in April and May.
I imagine soon I will see them swooping together across the marsh grasses
of the Poquoson River, taking in the colors from a view a few feet above the surface we humans will never get to see.