Just before stepping up onto the ledge of a flat outcrop she appeared suddenly from the grasses, nearly flat against the rough and gnarled granite, her beak wide with eyes speaking of the wild. She appeared to hiss at me, although in reality it was more of an anguished squawk. 

Her message was clear, both eloquent and forceful enough to convince us to skirt around the granite outcrop away from her perhaps quite well camouflaged chicks. She was quite adept in her role as a guardian of her small brood.

While nighthawks fly with uncommon grace, and dive from great heights with blinding speed, on the ground their short legs and horizontal stance makes them almost immobile. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology notes that nighthawks won’t make a nest and their young are so well camouflaged that they’re nearly impossible to find, and even the adults seem to vanish as soon as they land.

Not this one, for she was a guardian with a goal of protecting her young, and if the experts at Cornell and Audubon are correct, we might not have seen her chicks even if we’d stepped onto the outcrop. In all honestly, this was the first nighthawk I’ve ever seen on the ground. 

Researchers have noted that with the overwhelming takeover of grassy lands for commodity crops that much of the former territory of the nighthawks has been destroyed. Nowadays they use areas like the outcrops at Big Stone National Wildlife Refuge (NWR) as nesting sites. So she was an unexpected and welcomed bonus.

We had come to the outcrops in hopes of photographing blooms of the second of two cacti located in the Refuge … brittle prickly pear. Earlier we were incredibly fortunate to capture the blooms of the extremely rare ball cactus, and now the blooms of the brittle. Thankfully they were blooming on the adjacent flat outcrops so we were able to photograph several clumps of the beautiful pale yellowish flowers without disturbing the protective nighthawk.

This female nighthawk wasn’t the only guardian of newly welcomed hatched birds of the early summer. Due to our wandering through three different NRW’s in the past week we’ve noticed many different species doing the same, from raptors like bald eagles and ospreys to swans and ducks, pheasants and even sandhill cranes. What a joy to observe such protective care and parenting in nature. And now is a perfect time to be out and about to observe and capture images of all the different species in parenthood.

Not far from the nighthawk, for example, is a huge eagles nest, and the bulky “baby’ seems nearly as large as its nearby, perched parent. We caught both on the nest tree. We also were fortunate to capture an osprey on her nest at Tamarac NWR a couple of days later with three young ones she was protecting in the nest. Thankfully one continued to poke his head above the contour of the edge of the stick-heavy nest. 

While I haven’t had much luck in catching a brood of pheasants, for they’re quite good at sneaking into the roadside grasses before I can focus, watching the swans with their cygnets both at Tamarac and Sherburne NWR, along with some in a nearby wetland, has been a rewarding experience. Unlike the nighthawks, swans, like the sandhill cranes, have made a resurgence in numbers and are no longer consider rare. Same with bald eagles. 

At Sherburne we witnessed sandhill colts in lockstep with their parents, easing through the prairie grasses near the wetlands pecking for edibles. We weren’t considered a threat, it seemed, as they leisurely meandered along. Two parents and the colt.

Twice we’ve been stopped on the road by mallard hens as their tiny ducklings waddled slowly behind them across the gravel toward a nearby wetland. And twice I’ve captured wood duck hens with their brood cruising though the shallows of wetlands. So peaceful. So beautiful

Oh, and the swans! There isn’t a way to overlook or ignore the artistic beauty of swans, and when they’re with their cygnets the beauty is in the protective parenting more so  than the arts. Both at Sherburne and Tamarac, male and female couples hung close to their growing brood, easing through the waters with apparent ease, or resting quietly among the cattails and reeds.

Yes, this has been a wonderful start to the summer watching the recently hatched birds of various species as they move from cracked shells through their quick learning path. Most of these avian guardians are common to us. But the nighthawk? What a wonderful surprise and photographic capture. In a world of devastation due to wars and climate change, watching nature evolve in peace and parental care has been an incredible and welcomed diversion; that the world of nature marches ever onward despite the ills of humanity.

Two more plants awaited my efforts to clear a space and cut through the tangle of a grassy  jungle when I had this wonder — do plants have a sense of freedom upon being pulled from a plastic flat and being placed into the soothing wide world of life sustaining soil?

Prior to that thought most of my focus was on figuring out how to space the select native prairie plants, how to plant them for height and color, then to do the honors for giving them the freedom of what hopefully will be a long and blooming life!

This has been an interesting and adventurous year for us here at Listening Stones. A few weeks ago I felt a calling to purchase six trees and plant all but one in the “south lawn.” Years ago I stopped mowing that space despite the beauty. That was the same year I also stopped mowing the planned “orchard” since deer had pretty much killed the young trees. Besides spending nearly a half day of mowing in areas where there was little use, there was a fear of what effect all that mowing had on global climate change. 

About this time another friend, Rhyan Schicker with the neighboring county SWCD had a prairie plant offering for three different pollinator groups … full sun, partial shade and septic mound. We took one of each, and in total it came to 190 plants. Three flats of 54 plants, plus three, nine-plant “gifted” flats of of our choosing.

On our pick up day in nearby Madison, we drove down to retrieve the flats with what suddenly became an “oh, gosh, what now?” moment. We brought them home and placed them on the table of the mudroom as we gathered our thoughts. I would start with the partial shade thanks to having several volunteer red columbines hugging the side the house. Originally my goal was to plant an area above a rock terrace garden facing the road. Those columbines, though, offered quite an argument, so I grabbed a shovel and started digging out the grass and weeds while keeping the original columbines.

While it was hard work clearing the space, the planting came easy. The whole process took most of the day on a Saturday. That left 108 more plants in the two flats, plus the three “gifts” still to plant. We marked out a space between the studio and house we would plant the full sun plants, an area with heavy lawn, and I couldn’t see my surviving digging away to the bare ground. 

A call was placed to a good friend, Wanda Berry, who is renowned for her horticultural skills around town. On her visit she offered a plan: “Why don’t you cover the grass with cardboard, cut holes to dig in the plants, then cover the whole thing with a heavy mulch,” she suggested. “It’d be much easier than clearing away all that grass with a shovel.”

Placing the mower at its lowest level, I went over the area to clear away as much of the grass depth as possible. Fortunately I had ample cardboard thanks to the shipment of my canvasses from my canvas printer in Minneapolis. Don’t ask why they were saved in the first place, and if I hadn’t had a wild hair about cleaning my studio about six months ago I could have completed both of the two remaining plots. 

Then the work began — laying down the cardboard, tacking it into place with lawn “staples,” cutting the holes, digging a deep enough hole, and finally, placing in the root plug and replacing the dirt snuggly around the plug. It was still hard work with lots of knee time and getting up and down — a lot of exercise for a guy my age.

It took much of two days to finish the full sun tray along with the extra 27 plants in the “gift” sets. That left the septic mound, which left me puzzled for nearly a week. My original thought was to somehow space the plants far enough apart to cover the entire mound. Frankly, there just didn’t seem to be enough plants and by then I was out of cardboard. Fortunately the plants were looking really strong and healthy thanks to the care Roberta was giving them.

By now I had used up all of the mulch we had bought and was in need for a supply of cardboard, which was gifted by another friend, Greg Lockwood. After a trip to the nursery to buy more mulch, I stopped by Greg’s store for the cardboard, came home and started on the mound. Like with any endeavor involving boring detailed work, you soon develop some sort of system or rhythm. I started cutting three or four holes through the cardboard before using a triangular garden spade to cut through the grassy duff before digging the hole. Then  would finally stand to retrieve the plant plugs. Less wear and tear on the body, and went much faster!

What I had started on late Monday afternoon was completed before a noon rain on Tuesday. Up close the site seemed huge, although from a distance it was easy to see just how much of the mound would be left to plant. We would need at least five more 54-plant trays to completely cover the entire mound, which I hope to do in the future.

As I laid the last couple of plants in their holes I had that thought of how the plants might feel, and I listened closely for any sighs of relief. It was difficult to hear them with all the bird chatter around me. Mourning doves, chickadees, sparrows, a yellow warbler and even our resident pheasants were having at it, filling the prairie skies with hopeful chatter. Joe Pye was laying nearby, and Roberta had returned from town with a box of lawn staples we needed to hold the last piece of cardboard in place. Peace on the planet!

It’s said it takes a community, and I’ve had a great one. Rhyan, Wanda, Greg, Roberta and even Sally Finzel from her native prairie Morning Sky Nursery had a hand in this pollinator work. Just after we finished, farmer friend Travis Sandburg showed up with his disc to prepare the former horse pasture and orchard for a pollinator pasture!

In the end, though, it’s hard to say who is happier … Roberta and I, or those rather soft-spoken plants of the prairie. Now it’s up to them, and eventually the pollinators we hope they attract. It’s all part of our little effort in keeping a planet healthy. 

Sometimes I wonder why I’ve never left what author and essayist Bill Holm called the “horizontal grandeur.” Our move some 32 years ago to the prairie served two purposes … getting out from the depths of debt caused by briefly owning houses both on the riverine banks of the Mississippi and from where we had moved in Denver, and in continuing a career that had seemed to dead-end after an unhappy stint at an advertising agency. 

To Holm, the prairie was about function more so than form, a place that “requires time and patience to comprehend.” And, a staunch home country if there ever was one.

He had an eagerness to compare this horizontal horizon with both encompassing trees and mountains. “Prairies, like mountains,” he wrote, “stagger the imagination not in detail but size.” He complained about being surprised by storms he couldn’t see coming in a forest, for trees were synonymous with jail bars, and mountains were high rather than offering something wide — a horizontal grandeur. 

Holm wasn’t alone in his thoughts. A writer named Don Young wrote of the prairie, “A single Monarch butterfly dances around the prairie, searching for an elusive bit of pollen; the silent gliding of a Cooper’s Hawk searching for anything that moves; prairie grass roots searching deeper and deeper for moisture; and me, searching for solitude, inspiration and a photo opt or two.” Sounds familiar.

Technically we’re speaking of land form, for actual prairies, those seas of grasslands, are no more. Nor are there many potholes. Commodity agriculture took care of both decades ago. Then this happened a few days ago while working to plant at least a part of our lawn to pollinator-friendly native forbs, an effort interrupted not by Hal Borland’s “homeless winds” that seem forever on the move, but by rain. A fast and furious downpour. When I looked up from the perch of my knees I noticed the sky, and later, while chasing the ever changing skyscape, I realized a bit of what Holm had written about concerning time and patience: a prairie sky as a palette of color, form and mysterious intrigue.

After rising quickly from the planting, I rushed into my studio for my camera. Sandwiched between the rueful blackness of both an overhead storm cloud and the darkened color of our restored prairie, a cumulative white bank of distant clouds fluttered within basically four different levels of threatening storm clouds, all offered as an interesting visual sandwich offering both drama and color.

And it would only become ever more interesting hours later as evening approached. Within a half hour of nightfall that palette offered several different painted skyscapes, and I couldn’t stop attempting to capture them. I suddenly realized what Holm had suggested, and that through time and patience, it was this horizontal skyscape that has allowed me to settle in, to find “home” within an landform and ecosystem so unlike any I had lived in previously. 

Yes, I grew up in the wooded hillsides of northeast Missouri, and spent years living along the Mississippi and even in the hills of the Driftless. More than a dozen years were spent in the Rockies of the west, years when I wrote and photographed happenings throughout the mountain communities for the Denver Post, and later traveled from Colorado to the Pacific Coast as a magazine freelance journalist.

When we left our rural home south of the Twin Cities to move to a small town where I would become a “country editor”, our goal was to give it two years at most. Yet, we raised our sons in the small town, then my wife died, and through it all I’m still here in what remains of the original Prairie Pothole Biome. In some ways I feel the influence of Monet, who featured ever changing palettes of color and intrigue in his paintings be they of haystacks, lily-padded ponds or quaint city streets. It was through my love and study of his work that I learned the beauty not of a sunset itself, but rather of the surrounding ambient colors, the drama and intrigue offered by these prairie skyscapes.

Nowadays I wish I could once again visit with Holm. Our first of three conversations came after his speech and ragtime piano performance at Prairie Edge Casino not long after his publication of his horizontal grandeur essay. We had teased one another over our respective loves of prairie and woodlands. Now, as this land or skyscape has evolved to grow on me, I could offer a more aware perspective in the conversation, and perhaps we might have had more of a basis for friendship than simply a friendly bantering. Of which we never evolved.

Regrets aside, no longer is there a quest for moving or living elsewhere. Besides that ever loving and changing palette of a skyscape, I’ve come to thoroughly appreciate the solitude and rhythms of seasonal change, of the surrounding nature that has over time developed into various seasonal expectations thanks to both the interesting feathered drop-ins from the flyway to the poking up of overlooked prairie forbs through prairie grasses. 

Someone recently asked if there was a “fall back” position or plan considering my age along with possible prospects of a decline in health, and I simply couldn’t think of one. I guess this horizontal grandeur and an ever interesting skyscape makes this close to being home, and an interesting one as one can possibly find. We’re not being ravaged by affects of global climate conditions as we might be further south, and going back to the mountains might now be limiting age-wise. 

And, as my dear friend, the artist and musician Lee Kanten has suggested, you simply cannot find a better place for observing both sunrises and sunsets. Come dawn or dusk. Ah, yes, those beautiful ambient colors where the likes of Monet could settle in next door and happily place a blank canvas on his easel; where he, Holm, the Kantens and ourselves could sit around sensing the smoke from the grill over mugs of wine as the skyscapes surrounding us become painted with another intriguing image.

Few will mistake me for a phenologist for I fail to track calendar time by the gathering of my oddly celebrated seasons … those numerous seasons consisting mainly of bird arrivals and the breaking blossoms of spring flowers. Each of these countless seasons offer mostly smiles of recognition and joy. One might compare each as a meeting up with old friends at some obscure cocktail party, with each offering a welcoming sigh of recognition. 

Perhaps I fall short in my tasks of phenology in that I fail to chart my observations from day to day, let alone year to year like an avid and true naturalist and phenologist, although I do try to capture as many of the arrivals as possible with my camera. Years ago there was an elderly naturalist named Ed Stone who lived south of Renville on the rise above Vicksburg County Park near the Minnesota River. Ed charted his finds on a day to day basis, keeping immense records of precipitation, temperatures, the breaking of daylight and the setting of the sun right along with his astute observations of nature along his bluffy hillside. If you asked when the skinks were first sighted on the flat outcrops just beyond his quiet home, he’d flip through his recording books to tell you. Such seasons were clearly evident in his detailed collection of works. Ed Stone was a true phenologist and someone I truly admired.

Then, there is me. By now many my notable seasons have already occurred, seasons that began back in early March with the skeins of snow and Canada geese along with the murmurations of Redwing blackbirds and starlings. This was about the time Pasque Flowers poked through the dry grasses on a hill above the Big Stone National Wildlife Refuge, typically our first bloomer of the year. 

As an amateur in the art of observation it seems that the waterfowl migrations were a bit early this spring, especially when compared to a year ago, and my neighboring birders felt as though the same might have happened with the waders, those wonderfully sleek and graceful shore birds. My spring seasons are never complete until the oriels, Gold Finches and Rose Breasted Grosbeaks champion our feeders. These past few days, though, have not been unlike an anxious child awaiting Christmas. Now they’ve all returned, and moments ago, actually, my Yellow Warbler was spotted. All now accounted for; all adding vivid color to our little farm!

It can’t already be two months since we motored off to central Nebraska for the annual Sandhill Crane migration, an event that leaves you in awe for their migrations are of the ages; migrations that began long before mankind appeared in these prairielands, if the crane hype is accurate. On this visit we opted for an early morning blind viewing along with perhaps 40 or so crane chasers. The night before, then through the heart and eve of the day after exiting the blind, we were basically road tripping between the area around Rowe Audubon Center near Kearney and the Crane Trust headquarters below Grand Island. This was my fourth such pilgrimage for the migration and perhaps my most productive image wise. 

We ended our time on a corner below Crane Trust with cranes feeding in untilled stalk fields on either side of the gravel roads. Above them, up in the skies, hundreds of thousands of cranes, in wave after wave, from all directions, were flying towards the Platte River to settle in as the sun eased below the horizon in the western sky. All around us rapturous melodies from times perhaps more historic than mankind itself drifted from the heavens. 

Back here at home, spider-webbed skeins of snow geese and the seemingly more organized skeins of Canada Geese plied the skies around the same time. Murmurations of redwings and starlings filled the groves, our own included. A farmer friend alerted us to a grouping of migrating Bald Eagles on a WMA adjacent to his farm. Weeks later came the waders, or the more commonly labeled shorebirds. Yellow Legs and American Avocets were coursing through the shallow depressions in the area grain fields. Our prairielands were coming alive, season upon season, species after species. What a glorious time!

One species that was so common a year ago, the White-Faced Ibis, must have ventured for a different route this year. Last spring they were frolicking in those same flooded depressions in the area fields as their kin. We’ve yet to see one. One of my birder buddies spoke of a lake being drained about two hours southeast of here where reports of a couple thousand shorebirds were busy feeding in the shallow waters. About the same time, though, I was in the midst of preparing for an exhibit and simply ran out of time. He now believes most of the shore birds have now passed through.

By April’s Earth Day we tried for an image I’ve thought about dozens of time. My aim was to capture a sunrise at Glendalough State Park where in past years hundreds of blooming pasque flowers blanketed a hilltop near the entrance. A park ranger suggested in a message that the tiny beauties should be peaking around the Earth Day Monday, so we set the alarm for 3 a.m. and headed out the next morning for the park. We made it in ample time but was faced with an unexpected heavy and cold-to-the-bone wind, along with a hill with but a handful of pasques poking through the grasses. Tall trees fronted my sight line toward the rising sun. Things happen like that in nature photography.

Yet, all wasn’t lost. Our day was saved when we drove deeper into Glendalough and ventured onto the loop toward the picnic grounds where we spotted three wild turkeys, including an amorous old tom. The sun had just risen, splashing a fantastic yellow hue to the morning. The light was nearly perfect. And, in front of us was the old tom, in his full mating display, strutting about with the longest and bushiest beard I can remember seeing. Perhaps the old guy had never ventured outside of the park boundaries. What a lovely moment! And, yes, capturing a tom in mating display is among the seasons I love to capture.

Another species. Another season. So it goes, on and on. And, even better, more await. Soon we’ll be seeing Prairie Smoke and White Ladyslippers, both common to the prairie. Dozens of woodland species are already making their wondrous debuts, all adding to this glorious mix of personal seasons. 

A few years ago a fellow nature photographer wondered about just how many images of prairie grasses or flowers she would ever need, and I guess the same might be said about any one of my numerous seasons. Is there a limit? Can there be a new light, or perhaps a color enhancement, that seems new and different? There is all of that, yet it perhaps comes down to a simple truth, that of welcoming those old familiar friends from nature back into your life. 

After jerking away the dead compass plant stalks poking in myriad directions from our triangular prairie-plant garden, and a half dozen batches of another dried plant, we had a nice little bonfire going in our pit when Roberta said, “It’s good being home. I enjoy looking around and being surrounded by the beauty of the prairie.”

This coming from a child of Milwaukee, one who had spent much of her married life in the woody hills of the Driftless, was high praise. 

Home.

Not unlike my partner, I grew up in the wooded hilly land of Northeast Missouri, not too distant from Mark Twain’s bluffy Hannibal, so like her, I love trees. Home meant being surrounded by maples, oaks and especially shagbark hickory. And, also like her, I also realize that as we drift into our elder years that living in the prairie was hardly on our individual bucket lists. 

Later in the afternoon we took a drive around the neighborhood. Deep, dark blue stormy-like clouds loomed along the western horizon, and it appeared rain was falling in the distant east. As we left Listening Stones Farm we spied a rainbow off in the eastern sky. So we adventured down a gravel two miles north of us and drove toward the rainbow, stopping intermittently to grab a few images. I had a wetland in mind a few miles away. Unfortunately clouds blanketed the arc.

That rainbow was the first of many nice images offered on our multiple-mile loop through what remains of the prairie pothole ecosystem. We would come across mallards, a lone pair of Northern Pintails, and on the surface of another wetland, a flock of Canvasbacks. At the apex of our loop a pair of Yellow Legs ambled through the shallows of yet another wetland. 

Have I mentioned the clouds? That continually evolving sky-scape rising from the horizon, clouds painted with the ambient colors of an invisible sunset hidden by deep blue curtain of storm clouds. Where was Monet and his easel? 

Home.

We had just returned from a week-long longboat trip up the Danube, from Budapest to Regenburg, Germany, where we had passed numerous picturesque villages, vineyards climbing steep hills, steeples of aged-old churches and even a few castles. Spring was breaking through all along the river, and some of the trees were coming to life with colorful blooms. Cormorants were busy building and guarding rookeries in trees alongside the river. We were in the midst of a grand and picture-worthy adventure, one that included a tour of a private estate for some homemade beer in the Bavarian hills. Peacocks, a pair of guard geese and well tended horses ventured over the greening grounds, all part of a forthcoming promise of spring complete with greening grasses and emerging spring flowers. Through it all, though, despite the peacefulness and beauty, there was never a sense of wondering about having a life there in the Bavarian countryside. We were passing through. 

Later, as our plane left Munich, we flew over much of the same countryside where small villages poked from the hillsides in all directions, all connected by strings of two-lane highways. It was hilly, quaint and beautiful. So  comfortable looking. It wasn’t home.

Having lived along the Mississippi River in various stops in my career, and after a dozen years of living and working in Colorado, thinking this little patch of basically flattened prairie would eventually feel as “home” would have taken a long stretch of imagination. I didn’t even know this landscape existed, and as a traveler passing through there wasn’t much to inspire a life here. That changed some 11 years ago with the start of a short, failed marriage. I knew a few people around the area thanks to my connections to the arts community, but otherwise I was a complete stranger. 

It’s taken awhile. It’s not like we’re in a remote Bavarian village with a language barrier. Yet, we’re somewhat “remote” with our’s being the only year-round residence within a five-mile stretch of gravel road. We are slowly gaining a few more friends; some coming, some going, some just hanging around.

Still, we are offered an almost daily menu of colorful sunrises and sunsets. Where our woods play host to occasional wild turkeys, wood ducks and piliated woodpeckers. Where pheasants “bark” from the staunch depths of our big bluestem prairie. Where deer come and go in their infinite movement between prairie groves. Where our dog, Joe Pye, laid claim to this patch of prairie some ten years ago and seems to rather stubbornly guard it day and night (even if it comes from the foot of our couch!). 

So what makes a place home? How does one measure the comfort in reaching the foot of the driveway after being gone for awhile? Or, in closing your eyes to breathe in a relaxing sigh knowing it is okay to ease into a chair on a sun-drenched deck with a glass of sun tea? Or know there is a nice wooden bench partially hidden in the grove offering an occasional perch to watch leaves flutter in the wind or to spy on summer warblers; to walk through the paths in the prairie in search of new wonders, or to recognize the return of an old one? Our kitchen felt home-like from the moment I walked into the house years ago in the “look through,” although I thoroughly disliked the two double-hung window above the sink. Those were replaced with a single space filling framed “picture” window that brought the outdoors inside, a perfect spot to watch those nightly sunsets while making dinner. 

Home. What more could it be? 

We were about to ladle some red beans and rice into our “porridge” bowls when my cell “pinged” with a message. Jeff Klages. Apparently there was a huge gathering of migrating Bald Eagles hunkered down in a prairie grove on the Klages Wildlife Management Area (WMA) about 20 miles east of my farm. This wasn’t the first time Jeff Klages has messaged me about possible photographic opportunities on his Big Stone County farm. A year or two ago it was a pair of Swans with signets in another of his wetlands. Would this be as wonderful?

Here’s the thing: Klages, who besides being successful beefman, is a county commissioner along with another friend, author Brent Olson, and has set me up with some fine photographic opportunities before. Both have, actually. And, Klages’ message came in just after another friend, Richard Handeen, had stopped over with a chainsaw to open our path through the grove where a huge tree had fallen across in a harsh winter storm a year ago, and for good measure took down a nice black walnut that apparently didn’t survive the past few years of spring flooding. Sometimes you just need a little help from your friends. Believe me, all is thoroughly appreciated.

With Klages’ hint in hand we made plans for an early morning rise to get on the road to the WMA and awoke to a brilliant red sunrise blazing through the bathroom window. Experience shows that if you see it coming through the window you might as well simply settle down to appreciate the beauty, for it is already too late to rush into the countryside seeking images. There are the car keys, grabbing the camera gear and so forth, each in its own way necessary, to slow you down as the sun rises ever higher and the ambient colors ebb in an ever growing grayish morning sky. Like this one. Perhaps one should be more aware and prepared. 

As it was, I was pleasantly surprised we were up and off so early, and what a fine little road trip we had. Once we reached the junction on the outskirts of Ortonville we still needed to course through nine miles of somewhat rolling prairie before skirting up a gravel road for a mile, then another half mile or so east. And, there they were, about two dozen Bald Eagles, posed on perch as white crowned royalty in the branches of the patched islands of trees. Occasionally a pair would fly off to make me wish for one of those airborne mating rituals, where the birds face one another in flight, talons holding one another tightly, one rightfully up, the other upside down. Although it seemed close to the courting ritual, their suspected courtship seem to fade in mid-flight.

That’s when a thought of the lovely song by the Beetles came to mind, of how love can sometimes be so lonely … without a little help from your friends.

We were parked alongside the wetland in the WMA long before the prairie winds picked up, and we sat with the windows down listening to prairie nature. We are prone to doing this at times like these. Above us azure to grayish skies hosted the remnants of the earlier sunrise as clouds drifted through, holding just enough color to bring an interesting hue to the images. If the eagles were conversing it was beyond my range of hearing, although faint sounds came of some nearby geese. 

When we left the wetland a bit later we would pass several Canada Geese waddling about in a farm lot just to the east of the WMA, which explained the sounds we had heard. Before we left we headed to the Klages’ homestead where we encountered a flock of resting migrating Redwing Blackbirds perched high in the farm grove. We had stopped to offer our thanks and found only the nearby cattle in the adjacent fields. Down the road on our way back toward the WMA we found a solitary Redwing perched on the branch of a blackened log, a result of an attempted burn, next to a pool of water. Another example of an early though approaching Spring.

Since we weren’t quite ready to leave we stopped briefly at the WMA to once again soak in a little more of the eagles. I was still hopeful of a mating image, but other than the occasional fly off, the eagles were collectively content in their restful perching. Other social media friends have posted similar images in the past few days while we’ve been traversing the nearby prairie in search of geese gatherings. 

Our luck would soon change, for moments later we would find our bonus. Turning back toward the west on the way home on a paved county highway we came across a huge gathering of geese feasting in a stalk field. Initially those closest to the road skirted away and up the rise. As they did so suddenly a huge flock rose from behind the ridge for a very nice portrayal of spring. 

Why should I have been surprised, for when Klages’ messaged me the first time about the swans in his wetland I had passed Stoney Creek about four miles east of the Ortonville junction on the way out where a beautiful snake-like ribbon of fog hung over sweet curves of the creek. Gritting my teeth over a missed opportunity I had continued on down the road for my goal was to capture the Swans in the rising sun.

Like on this trip, though, after securing my initial images, I drove back toward town to surprisingly find the creek still grasping the fog and was blessed when a couple of bank swallows flew through to provide me with an amazing image. Pure fate. It was one of those delightful moments of photography when all the elements suddenly come together. And, now, once again, it did on a morning when we went searching for eagles.

Yet, this was more than about swans, creeks, springtime flocks of geese and eagles. This was more about being neighbors, of being neighborly, of reaching out in anticipation with possible gifts provided by nature.

In these post-Covid and politically difficult times, when our connections with neighbors have seemingly become strained, having neighbors and friends like Jeff Klages, Brent Olson and Richard Handeen, reaching out means so much. All of which makes the world so much gentler and breathable. It just gives one a wonderful feeling that perhaps we aren’t as individually stranded as it feels sometimes. Yes, there are certainly times when we thoroughly appreciate a little help from our friends. And, yes, sometimes I even sing out of tune … 

So lets talk about our warming planet, for in case we don’t get it, our feathered friends surely do. For example, records from the annual Sandhill Crane migration in Central Nebraska indicates this is one of the earliest overall arrival of the cranes with this being the last week of February and the first two days of March, with nearly a quarter million birds already camping out overnight in the shallow Platte River. This is more like the numbers expected by mid-March.

Local naturalist, Jason Frank, who organizes the annual Salt Lake Birding Weekend, noted, “This will be the earliest waterfowl migration I’ve ever seen; almost all the duck species that pass through here are here right now. The only species I haven’t seen yet are Blue and Green Winged Teal. Waterfowl migration will certainly be past peak by the time of the bird count April 27, but it remains to be seen what happens with shorebirds. If it stays this dry, they may not linger long as they pass through.”

Then there is this: Last Monday three young men were ice fishing on a small wetland north of us. Ice on nearby Big Stone Lake was considered so unstable and unpredictable that our local bait shop officially closed off their guiding and rental season, as ice was melting and stacking up along the shore. Temperatures were in the high 60s, and perhaps even 70 degrees. On February 26. They, along with many of us, were giddy.

All of which changed the next day when the guys were nowhere to be seen as winds hustled across the prairie at speeds around 20 mph, with gusts a good 10 mph stronger. Clouds, thick and densely gray, choked off any semblance of sunny, blue skies. Thermometers seemed generous at 9 degrees above freezing. Winds were so blustery that on the way home from the countywide caucus that night our car gave us grave concern on the way home. Blasts of snow and dirt coursed through the darkness where the fishers had parked about 30 hours earlier. 

Some folks at the caucus were wondering what might we expect as we move even deeper into the aspects of global warming. “What’s normal anymore?” asked one woman. When it was suggested that the weather swing might be our new normal, she simply stared while seemingly thinking it over. 

If one goes deep into the daily newspaper they will find buried stories concerning issues with global climate change. Refugees trudging across the jungles and deserts of Mexico in search a more humanly sustainable future course through our southern states seemingly ruffled monthly by hurricanes and tornadoes. Tornadoes ravaged a Chicago suburb and communities through Michigan and Ohio already this week. A huge wildfire burns out of control in the Texas Panhandle into Oklahoma, the largest in Texas state history. Last Sunday a story appeared on the fear surrounding the southern shores of Lake Superior, which for the first time in recorded history was completely ice free. Only 2.7 percent of ice coverage was reported for all the Great Lakes for the entire winter. 

“We’ve crossed a threshold in which we are at a historic low for ice cover for the Great Lakes as a whole,” GLERL’s Bryan Mroczka, a physical scientist, was quoted as saying. “We have never seen ice levels this low in Mid-February on the lakes since our records began in 1973.”

Here is another report from the Sunday newspaper: This winter’s shrinking supply of cold air in the atmosphere has coincided with what is probably going to be one of the warmest winters on record. Many locations in the United States are on track for a record-warm winter as temperatures soar to near and above 30 degrees warmer than normal in the season’s final days. On Monday, Dallas hit a record high of 93 degrees. Minneapolis reached 65 — 32 degrees above average. Chicago touched the 70s on Tuesday. Globally, more than 200 countries have seen record warmth this week, according to weather historian Maximiliano Herrera. January was the eighth consecutive month to register as that month’s warmest on record, while 2023 was Earth’s warmest year on record for both the land and oceans.

All of which brings to mind a moment in a Master Naturalist’s “Gathering Partners” presentation several years ago when someone asked a University of Minnesota climate specialist what we should expect in respect to a warming climate. His offerings: that we in the central part of Minnesota should expect to have summers and winters much like we see in the band across from Omaha to Des Moines; and that a preview of the BWCA area would most likely be witnessed in Granite Falls where outcrops of gneiss and granite along the Minnesota River mirror the rocks on the Canadian Shield. Despite his good intentions, he wasn’t close. No one, apparently, can accurately predict what will happen as our planet continues on its current warming trend, temperatures of which when viewed over the past few centuries resembles a hockey stick — although there has been no edging that would complete the mental profile.

All speculation aside, and with deep respect to him and others concerning the changing climate, we humans haven’t any idea of what a burning planet will resemble in the years ahead … not even for next year, 2025. You may recall back in the “teens” that the worldwide goal from the international climate conferences was that for our planet and its species to survive long term certain perimeters needed to be in place by 2025. So little has been accomplished, and indeed, county-level arguments are being roused around here on allowing for methane digesters along with a pipeline. We have a political party that resists any conclusive attempt at halting the earthly fire. While all this may sound new to us, warnings of global climate warmth began in the 1970s yet most of us act as if nothing needs to change, and to hell with Al Gore! 

We humans have been far too passive, and perhaps that comes with the labeling, that ever evasive “tipping point” seems as a moving target to where it no longer means much. Way back then those warming slopes didn’t look so steep, and the potential impacts were far off into the future. Not next year! Given the scientific knowledge at the time, perhaps what we needed was what a major newspaper like The Guardian did by introducing new terms back in 2019 that “more accurately describe the environmental crises facing the world”. Instead of “climate change” the paper chose the terms “climate emergency, crisis or breakdown” and “global heating” over “global warming”. 

The editor said, “We want to ensure that we are being scientifically precise, while also communicating clearly with readers on this very important issue. The phrase ‘climate change’ sounds rather passive and gentle when what scientists are talking about is a catastrophe for humanity.” 

Well, there you go. Catastrophic storms and unpredictable weather come on a daily basis across the globe. Perhaps this is our “new normal” even if there is nothing “normal” about the escalating temperatures. However, if you still question the absolute yet unpredictable science perhaps you should simply reach for your binoculars and watch the birds. Our feathered friends seem to have a far better grasp on our changing climate than we humans.