ILLINOIS SE Use ON Bey Del Bee Nv 19 
Surprised, they exchanged stares. The teal moved off slowly breaking the 
hypnotic spell, then flew off when she stood up. 
Marnie Mayflower sat down to watch the river, was utterly quiet, 
hoping to be part of the secret life of the marsh. 
In contrast to the peaceful, exquisite song of a Western Meadowlark, 
a rabbit, leaping and zigzagging, swerved off into the dense under-growth, 
pursued by a weasel. A muskrat swam into sight, trailing a large sun- 
flower plant in its mouth. A mother duck was leading her young when 
suddenly the last duckling went straight down without a ripple. A turtle? 
Unaware of the loss, the family swam on. 
Marie Mayflower’s thoughts lingered on the variety of life in a 
marsh. She recalled the courting antics of the migrating golden-eye ducks 
stopping over. The male arched his head back to touch his tail. What 
an athlete! She liked to think of the ‘dead’ opossum on the trail. Sus- 
picious, she returned in ten minutes to find it gone. That autumn, the 
migrating Monarch Butterflies congregated by the thousands in a pine 
area adjacent to the marsh. They drifted aimlessly about for several days, 
before moving on. 
One snowy day, she had watched the Snow Buntings making their 
way up the beach, feeding on weed seeds, bending the stalks with their 
weight, creating a flowing rhythm set to music by the waves. She re- 
membered the marsh in April seeing the white dots of the pussy willows 
everywhere, hearing the spring peepers, looking for the fairy shrimp in 
the small pools and puddles, knowing where to find skunk cabbage and 
marsh marigold, listening at twilight to the woodcock’s mating ‘song’ as 
he spiraled down and the rasping notes of the Wilson’s Snipe. 
Reveries over, Marie Mayflower sauntered on. The wood lilies lift 
their bells, proud of their vivid beauty. [here was color along the river 
banks: blue of the pickerel weed, pink-red of the water smart-weed — 
all framed by the bul-rushes and cat-tails. 
Sunset time always came too soon. Returning, the path followed the 
ridges. Marie Mayflower was aware of the drifting fragrances, the going- 
to-bed sounds, mysterious small social noises. The eerie ‘song’ of the 
American Bittern’ so in harmony with the mood of a fiery sunset. She 
had a feeling of kinship with the secretive ways of the marsh, the only 
human alive to witness the close of this day. The sunset light caste 
misty glow ... shadows played about, a sitewdecclark sang a last 
bubbly song. 
—1615 Hinman Ave 
Evanston, Ill. 60201 
EBUCATIATHE IGNORANT) CORBY PHE SELESH 
