This morning the clouds are resting on the tops of the mountains. They are laden with snow and remind me of a piñata just waiting to be whacked by a stick so they can unload their burden.
Along the river’s edge the tips of the old cottonwoods have turned a season-welcoming golden. The river willow is a glowing shade of terra cotta and the lovely maroon dogwood is turning amethyst, sure signs the sap is flowing.
There is a bench of land between us and the river, about the width of a country road and 10 feet below the level of our house. Beyond that and perhaps eight feet lower is the Bitterroot River. This morning it is teeming with life.
Opposite our house is a backwater that is very attractive to wildlife. I pick up the field glasses to check out a commotion in the liquid cul-de-sac, and see several Canada Geese having a rather heated discussion about territory. If you’ve ever been around geese, you know they are not to be messed with. They are a species full of sound and fury and mating season hormones turn the everyday flurries into a perfect storm.
Nonchalantly riding out the storm, right next to the “hissing match”, are several ducks, four different species, bobbing for breakfast. They’ve seen the goose display far too often to be impressed.
There is a large snag that washed into that pool back when it was part of the river’s main channel, and sitting on a limb of that waterlogged mass is a big bird – a very big bird. It’s a young golden eagle who has been drawn to the commotion much like a 13-year old boy is drawn to a fistfight. He is making full use of his amazing ability to turn his head nearly 360 degrees to take in the whole scene. I laugh at him when he makes himself dizzy and nearly falls off his perch into the water.
Movement on the nearby shore, proves to be a tiny spotted fawn with her mama standing guard lest the eagle should take a fancy to venison for breakfast. As I marvel at the new little spotted miracle, something large flies across my field of vision. Hildyth – our resident Blue Heron - has arrived for breakfast. She makes a breathtaking precision landing in the shallow water and immediately assumes her statue pose to wait, oh so patiently, for breakfast to arrive.
On the near side of the river, along the edge of the high bank, 13 woodchucks are busy snuffling through the grasses for their favorite snack (whatever that may be). Two of them take up their usual positions on the rail fence. They are stretched out their full length upon the top rail, feet dangling down on either side like a lumpy saddle blanket drying in the sun. A bit to the north of them is a rooster pheasant, white ringed neck shining like a beacon, flapping his wings and strutting his stuff. ‘Tis the season.
I eat my ice cold oatmeal with a smile on my face. It’s a great day to be alive.
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