Swans’ song time?

Compared to most prior years, we’ve seen very few swans this year. Perhaps those that migrated north last spring haven’t yet returned. That would be consistent with  the fact that we’ve seen few waterfowl in the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area pools all summer. Years past, there were often many Canada geese and a handful of swans. I’ve no idea what’s going on, or not going on for that matter. There is a location on the lower St. Croix river where flocks of swans often spend the winter. Maybe we need to take a drive and check out that place some day soon.

swans at Carlos Avery WMA

Photo by J. Harrington

We have been seeing more pheasants in the area fields during the past few years. Maybe their range is slowly increasing to the north as climate breakdown continues? There seem to be lots of changes in habitats and ranges as the effects of climate weirding continue. I know that one nearby major wetland complex is practically dry.  That could well affect both pheasants and waterfowl; better(?) for the former, worse for the latter.

I’m seeing, or reading about, more and more changes for the worse as climate breakdown continues. It’s affecting the habitats of fish, wildlife and humans. And yet, and YET, our government continues to under-respond while too many folks, especially those in rural areas, continue to vote for the party full of climate change deniers. I am not encouraged. I hope the upcoming elections prove that I’m a lousy trend extender.

The Wild Swans at Coole

By William Butler Yeats

The trees are in their autumn beauty,

The woodland paths are dry,

Under the October twilight the water

Mirrors a still sky;

Upon the brimming water among the stones

Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me

Since I first made my count;

I saw, before I had well finished,

All suddenly mount

And scatter wheeling in great broken rings

Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

And now my heart is sore.

All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,

The first time on this shore,

The bell-beat of their wings above my head,

Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,

They paddle in the cold

Companionable streams or climb the air;

Their hearts have not grown old;

Passion or conquest, wander where they will,

Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,

Mysterious, beautiful;

Among what rushes will they build,

By what lake's edge or pool

Delight men's eyes when I awake some day

To find they have flown away?

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