This fragile world
The Cove Journal by JoDee Samuelson
Middle of April, still parka weather. Our morning walk takes us through the summer camp and down the slip to the water.
Lately we’ve been finding tree fossil fragments all along the capes and today is no exception. “Here’s another one!” A smooth red scrap of an ancient pine tree, 300 million years old. Of course the sand is even older than that, but there’s something fascinating about petrified remnants of organic life.
Fossils, sea glass, shells, driftwood—they all vie for attention—but what I find most fascinating today is the stark reality of our fragile world in this place where sea meets land, where water and ice patiently, ceaselessly, carve pillars and caves and inukshuks out of soft island sandstone. It seems impossible that these tenuous sculptures can hold up our island.
“I suppose we’ve lost a foot or two of shoreline this winter,” I muse. “What a shame,” says our neighbour and walking friend. A shame? – but I know what she means. We don’t want our bayberry bushes and cosy summer cottages and ladders and fences and breakwaters to tumble into the sea. We want everything good to last, and this island certainly seems good to us…
And it seems good to the Island’s wild creatures. At the place where brook empties into Cove, the water’s edge is dotted with ring-billed gulls, plus one black duck that seems to belong to the gang, all happily minding their own business. Two plump Canada geese, obviously a couple, take turns foraging in the reeds and marsh grass, one rooting out tasty sprouts while the other stands guard.
Further along the shoreline are large lumps of seaweed… that move… and turn out to be ducks. American black ducks? Ring-necked ducks? Where are my binoculars when I need them? I don’t know why we love to put names to things, but we do.
In the salt marsh a handful of blue herons have laid claim to the deep brackish pools (the mucky bottomless kind of pools you wouldn’t want to step into by mistake), each bird studying the still black water for a flash of anything edible.
As we tiptoe across the bridge, a soft brown mallard duck and her handsome green-headed consort fly up in a panic, quacking madly. They’re always like this. Their kind has had experience with humans and they don’t like us getting too close. A crow on the power line looks down, throws his head back and caws boldly: “Ha ha ha! I’m not afraid of you!” Crows seem to know that humans don’t consider them good eating.
We cast one last glance back at the Cove. High above the water three large dark birds soar effortlessly: falcons? A flock of tiny birds flying even higher catch the sun on white wings and bellies: terns?— it must be time for these chatty darlings to arrive from their winter retreats in Argentina and Chile.
Back at the highway it’s “See you tomorrow” as we go out separate ways. Crows, ducks, fossils, friends. We’re all part of this fragile world.
