A Shift of Season
In the call of a bird you can sometimes hear the passage of time.
By Susan Hand Shetterly
Mornings and evenings I come to walk this bay that is not far from my house in Surry, down to the little marsh at the east, and back. It is only a shot-glass marsh, bracketed by granite and spruces on either side. A narrow stream empties into it, and mud has built up in a gray sheen over the years. Spartinas have spread down the mud's soft hem to the sweet water coming out of the high-banked woods and the salt water washing in. It is a three-bird, maybe a five-bird marsh, a place so small, so private, a single bird can represent an entire shift of season.
