A Pond for all Seasons
The water mirrors the sky. The wind rustles among dry reeds. It sweeps low over the surface of the water, casting quilts of shadow and light. The pond blends clouds and shoreline, phragmites and birches with the reflections of migrating geese.
The pond is silent, empty. The woods are still.
I covet the solitude, the muted palette of this season, the pale winter light warming these bare-boned birch woods.
Over on the East Pond there is a large flock of snow geese. The wind carries their wild cries. They are restless. As the days lengthen, the urge within them to resume their journey grows stronger. Soon they will leave, carrying the season with them.
In my backyard crocuses and snowdrops are blooming and pussy willows budding, three weeks short of spring.
Red-winged blackbirds are among the first migrants to return to the marsh. Late in the day an all-male chorus gathers in the towering cottonwoods just south of the pond. Each evening brings more blackbirds, and the performance becomes more raucus. The music is ancient and wild. The antiphonal calls of the blackbirds converge in a rasping, many-voiced wave of sound that fills and penetrates the marsh. Many of these musicians establish territories and raise families of future performers within earshot of the pond. The males continue to sing throughout the summer, but individually, not in the great communal concerts that make these early days of March so unforgettable.
There are other musicians at the pond. Without a doubt they rival the blackbirds. Come to the pond in the middle of March on a warm sunny day, or better yet, come on a mild evening in April or May. the cacophony of birdlike trills, peeps, and whistles will take your breath away. Every crooner within the entire county and beyond has converged in this place, at this hour. As you have guessed, these vocalists are not birds at all, but amphibians, thousands of one-inch spring peepers. Their sound is amplified by distended throats from an enormous bubble almost the size of the diminutive frog itself.
Big John's Pond is a half-acre scrape within a stone's throw of Cross Bay Boulevard, the three-lane blacktop that knifes through the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. The pond is human-made, a shallow basin, no more than a rectangular ditch collecting rainwater. It is flanked by a copse of gray birches. A stand of swamp maples graces its southern end. In autumn they flame bright crimson. Moreover it is encircled by a fearsome tangle of sumac, poison ivy and phragmites. I say fearsome because I remember too well my fool's errand to photograph glossy ibis at the north end. I chose to conceal myself, lying prone in the midst of this wilderness. Never having contracted poison ivy, I thought myself immune. I was mistaken. The itching started the day after. Subsequent observation and photography at the pond were conducted from the confines of the wooden blind at the south end.
Big John's Pond is named after the bulldozer operator by that name. Originally created to provide freshwater habitat for reptiles and amphibians, it has become a magnet for the avian tribe--black-crowned and yellow-crowned night-herons, green heron, great egret, snowy egret, cattle egret, tri-colored heron, little blue heron, glossy ibis, wood duck, green-and blue-winged teal, mallard, black duck, northern shoveler, snipe, woodcock, kingfisher, flicker, kinglets, yellow and yellow-rumped warblers, common yellowthroat, eastern phoebe and brown thrasher. In more than 10 years of observation, I have recorded close to 100 species.
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