I felt called to get my arse out of my automobile and take a walk. I
could see an arched bridge over a little creek flowing into the
Saginaw River, a bridge that could be in a Monet painting or a
Japanese woodcut. I stumbled upon a round wall of cut stones, a fire
pit in the center, wall top flat for comfortable seating. A recent
fire's ashes remained. Small trees had started to grow in the gaps
between stones, in time what will bring it down. The bridge didn't
disappoint. A master carpenter had constructed it of curved hardwood
planks; it arched over muddy creek waters, gray and chalky white in
color, no water vegetation and too many tires. I saw a path that led
to the shore of the Saginaw River and closer to Green Point Island,
and the path led past a grove of sycamores in need of a trim and into
a grove of pines, where pine needles covered the ground. Trash from
parties had started to sink into the needles; a Magnum condom wrapper
rested on top. The grove bordered on a freshly plowed field, and I spotted a flock of
birds near the river, about halfway across the field. Or was it
freshly harvested? The birds were working the soil, for worms as far
as I knew. I understood why farmers love this soil and are reluctant
to sell the rights to farm it to the Shiawassee National Wildlife
Refuge. It is black and fragrant, dense and sticky. Maybe it is called
loam, which combines clay, sand and silt. I knew I was going to mess
up my shoes, but I had no binoculars and I wanted to verify if I were
looking at Wild Turkeys or Sandhill Cranes, both of which have been
counted in the refuge. Ordinarily, I would just leave flocks of birds
alone in migratory season, since resting and feeding allows their fat
stocks accumulate. But these were probably turkeys, hardly migratory
birds. On M-13, I had driven by a yard of sugar beets, operated by Pioneer
Sugar, with eight long mounds of stacked up beets, which look like
pale brown, roundish lumps of coal. In fall, along roads in the
Michigan thumb, you can pick the ones that tumbled off the truck by
the side of roads. The sugar beet is deeply rooted, so to speak, in
the hearts of Thumb people. I met a woman who grew up in the Thumb who
held her hand over her heart as she remembered the scent of roasting
sugar beets raised by the refinery in Caro, Michigan. The process that
digs these beets out of the soil has provided deer and wildlife with
plenty to browse through out the winter. I noticed sugar beets gouged out and filled with rain water. I was
close enough to the flock to see their feet, and the flock didn't take
flight or even squawk. The flock muddled over to the shrubs and trees
of the rivers edge and vanished among grass and river debris. I wanted
to see if the flock cowered in the grass, so I moved closer. By the
time I had reached their position, I saw the flock watching me from
the island across the river. I hadn't seen any take flight, so I
assume the birds swam across. I once had waded out into the shallows
off Mission Point, north of Traverse City, only to learn I was
witnessing the mating party of carp roiling the water. I felt a little
abashed to have broken up the Thanksgiving Dinner of a family of
fifteen turkeys. But I was grateful for the turkeys, who had led me on
a nature walk. Wonder about the taste of roasted wild turkey, fattened
upon sugar beets?
could see an arched bridge over a little creek flowing into the
Saginaw River, a bridge that could be in a Monet painting or a
Japanese woodcut. I stumbled upon a round wall of cut stones, a fire
pit in the center, wall top flat for comfortable seating. A recent
fire's ashes remained. Small trees had started to grow in the gaps
between stones, in time what will bring it down. The bridge didn't
disappoint. A master carpenter had constructed it of curved hardwood
planks; it arched over muddy creek waters, gray and chalky white in
color, no water vegetation and too many tires. I saw a path that led
to the shore of the Saginaw River and closer to Green Point Island,
and the path led past a grove of sycamores in need of a trim and into
a grove of pines, where pine needles covered the ground. Trash from
parties had started to sink into the needles; a Magnum condom wrapper
rested on top. The grove bordered on a freshly plowed field, and I spotted a flock of
birds near the river, about halfway across the field. Or was it
freshly harvested? The birds were working the soil, for worms as far
as I knew. I understood why farmers love this soil and are reluctant
to sell the rights to farm it to the Shiawassee National Wildlife
Refuge. It is black and fragrant, dense and sticky. Maybe it is called
loam, which combines clay, sand and silt. I knew I was going to mess
up my shoes, but I had no binoculars and I wanted to verify if I were
looking at Wild Turkeys or Sandhill Cranes, both of which have been
counted in the refuge. Ordinarily, I would just leave flocks of birds
alone in migratory season, since resting and feeding allows their fat
stocks accumulate. But these were probably turkeys, hardly migratory
birds. On M-13, I had driven by a yard of sugar beets, operated by Pioneer
Sugar, with eight long mounds of stacked up beets, which look like
pale brown, roundish lumps of coal. In fall, along roads in the
Michigan thumb, you can pick the ones that tumbled off the truck by
the side of roads. The sugar beet is deeply rooted, so to speak, in
the hearts of Thumb people. I met a woman who grew up in the Thumb who
held her hand over her heart as she remembered the scent of roasting
sugar beets raised by the refinery in Caro, Michigan. The process that
digs these beets out of the soil has provided deer and wildlife with
plenty to browse through out the winter. I noticed sugar beets gouged out and filled with rain water. I was
close enough to the flock to see their feet, and the flock didn't take
flight or even squawk. The flock muddled over to the shrubs and trees
of the rivers edge and vanished among grass and river debris. I wanted
to see if the flock cowered in the grass, so I moved closer. By the
time I had reached their position, I saw the flock watching me from
the island across the river. I hadn't seen any take flight, so I
assume the birds swam across. I once had waded out into the shallows
off Mission Point, north of Traverse City, only to learn I was
witnessing the mating party of carp roiling the water. I felt a little
abashed to have broken up the Thanksgiving Dinner of a family of
fifteen turkeys. But I was grateful for the turkeys, who had led me on
a nature walk. Wonder about the taste of roasted wild turkey, fattened
upon sugar beets?
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