birds

Outside on a cloudy Friday evening, heard the urgent call of geese heading south, the essence of wildness, even though I couldn't see them. Woke up on a sunny Saturday morning, wind from the northwest. Outside, two hawks circling and screeching in the blue skies overhead. Allyn and I hiked Snake Mountain, and I was hoping to see some raptors heading south. The conditions were favorable.
It was a great hike with an amazing view from the top of the Valley of Vermont, Lake Champlain, and the Adirondacks in the west. Unfortunately, didn't see much in the way of raptors--just one, and it actually seemed to be heading the wrong way. Saw the first flock of geese heading south, however. North winds expected on Wednesday. I'm going to keep looking.

"Audubon" Frederick says, "was an American, walked into swamps and woods for years, back when that whole country was just swamps and woods. He'd spend all day watching one individual bird. Then he'd shoot it and prop it up with wires and sticks and paint it. Probably knew more than any birder before or since. He'd eat most of the birds after he painted them. Can you imagine?" Frederick's voice trembles with ardency. Gazing up. "Those bright mists and your gun on your shoulders, and your eyes set firmly in your head?"

Werner tries to see what Frederick sees: a time before photography, before binoculars. And here was someone willing to tramp out into a wilderness brimming with the unknown and bring back paintings. A book not so much full of birds as full of evanescence, of blue-winged trumpeting mysteries.

All the Light We Cannot See
Anthony Doerr