"Who-ha-hoo-o-o is Ready for Spring?"

Most mornings I awaken to the territorial song of a whip-poor-will. Wait a minute! you might say, if you have some familiarity with this bird. The whip-poor-will rarely performs its namesake song outside the spring mating season. And hey… (you may add suspiciously) whip-poor-wills winter along the Gulf of Mexico and in Central America. They’re hundreds of miles from your frigid Minnesota home in winter! What’s the story, Petersen? The truth is, I cheat. My whip-poor-will waker-upper comes from an alarm clock.

During the spring breeding season, local wild birds often make my electronic whip-poor-will redundant. Thanks to its high latitude, Minnesota’s June sunrises take place as early as 5:30 a.m. Humans may have allied dawn and birdsong, but birds don’t seem to consider this such a firm contract. More than two-dozen songbird species nest in our neighborhood, and many appear to consider it slothful to wait until sunrise before singing. Some start as early as 4:00 a.m.

In the heart of winter I miss that avian chorus, however inconvenient its timing. Some birds remain here year-round, to be sure. Last year my son’s kindergarten class studied winter birds. Over dinner one evening,
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My son's colored pictures from the kindergarten unit on winter birds
 
 
"Soaring Survivors: Pelican-Watching in San Francisco"

Golden Gate Bridge in fog, copyright 2009 Christine Petersen
Fog begins to lift above the Golden Gate Bridge
I'm standing on the coastal trail just west of San Francisco's Golden Gate. Fog obscures most of the famed structure, though now and then a blazing patch of red is revealed as a gust of wind pushes aside a corner of the low-lying cloud. If I were asked to choose a mascot to represent this grandiose landscape, the brown pelican would have no rivals. To the inexperienced observer this might seem an odd choice. Weighing up to eight pounds, with a wingspan greater than 7 feet and a curving neck that culminates in an improbably long, hooked bill, brown pelicans look like make-believe creatures from a child's storybook: gangly, disproportionate, and comical. Yet airborne pelicans are the epitome of grace—flapping with slow ease; making fast, steep plunges in pursuit of fish; flying in long, curving formations that follow the breaking lines of waves.
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Adult brown pelican in non-breeding plumage
 
 
"Passing Thoughts”
Sunrise over Minnesota lake, copyright Christine Petersen 2009
"Beauty has as many meanings as man has moods.
    Beauty is the symbol of symbols.
Beauty reveals everything, because it expresses nothing.
When it shows us itself, it shows us the whole fiery-colored world."
    —Oscar Wilde
In the early morning hours I stand at the kitchen window, alone with the silence and my thoughts. The last few stars fade overhead as a pale glow touches the treeline across the lake.

To my surprise, a late-feeding bat appears over the meadow, making a wide sweep at canopy level. The bat passes just a few meters in front of the window. Suddenly it lurches to the side, down, then rapidly forward. Such maneuvers make bat flight appear haphazard
 
 
"On the Wing"

For weeks the yard has hummed (yes, that's a pun) with ruby-throated hummingbirds. Throughout the day males, females, and juveniles zipped between feeders, flowers, perches, and hideouts. The chase was always on, and tiny birds whizzed past us, in pursuit or retreat, whenever we ventured into the yard. Actual fights between hummingbirds are apparently uncommon, though they seem to expend endless energy keeping each other from nectar sources.

In Birds of America, John James Audubon described this habit. “They are quarrelsome,” he wrote, “and have frequent battles in the air, especially the male birds. Should one be feeding on a flower, and another approach it, they are both immediately seen to rise in the air, twittering and twirling in a spiral manner until out of sight.”

A few years back I read an article about hummingbirds in Smithsonian magazine. The author commented how fortunate it is that
 
 
"Afternoon Delight"

Rain or shine, subzero or sweltering, around 2:00 p.m. each weekday some internal alarm prompts me from my chair toward the kitchen. Although this is a short migration, it involves a radical shift in habitat. My office is tucked on the north side of the house and flanked by an Entish pin oak tree. Those with an aversion to low light might find the room too solemn, but I enjoy its cool, shady attitude. It feels as though I have my own little bower among the branches of the house. I work here for hours at a stretch, cocooned in a silence that is conducive to concentration but not oppressive. There’s a palpable shift in my awareness when I enter the kitchen, which is flooded with light throughout the day and in all seasons. Wide windows on its east and west walls, and exposure from the south through an adjoining mudroom, make the kitchen open and lively. This is the real heart of our home. Even a quick infusion of its light, color, and space gives me just the dose of energy I need to remain focused through the afternoon. A cup of tea doesn’t hurt, either.

Teatime is not a fancy affair. I don’t prepare food, and never even sit down. But there is a ritual associated with this break. I take down two mugs from the cabinet. One is chosen randomly, though it can’t be too large. The other is my favorite mug, made of thick, cream-colored ceramic with a handle that looks like a twisted twig. Across its surface are painted two of the birds that commonly appear in our yard: the Baltimore oriole and the blue jay. The style of painting looks somehow old-fashioned, like it belongs in a dusty field guide you might find tucked away in your grandparents’ library. I choose a bag of good black tea to go in the first mug. Something fruity or spicy goes in mine—but no caffeine allowed. Finally I fill the burnished metal teakettle and place it on the burner. Now begins my favorite part of the routine. Until the kettle sings I have a few free moments, with nothing more important to do than watch.