Still Marsh
Slow notes from one small wetland at the edge of town — reeds, open water, birds and weather, written down whenever there is something worth remembering.
October
The level has dropped almost a hand's width since the end of summer. Mud flats are showing along the western bank, and the reeds there have turned the colour of dry bread. The first real frost left a thin rim of ice in the shallows this morning; it was gone by ten.
Teal in small groups, keeping to the far side. A heron stood in the same place for most of an hour and then left without catching anything I could see.
September
Three weeks of rain filled every ditch that feeds the marsh. The boardwalk on the north side was under water for a few days, which is a good reminder of why it was built on posts in the first place. Swallows left in the middle of the month, later than last year.
August
Warm, still afternoons are the only time to try. I counted along the same forty metres of bank on five days and never got the same answer twice, which is probably the honest result. The blue ones outnumber everything else by a wide margin.
Spring
A small place changes slowly enough that you only notice the difference when you write it down. These pages are a plain record: what the water was doing, what turned up, what didn't. Nothing more scientific than a notebook and a pair of boots.