Since that first day, I have often hiked on that marsh,
gradually increasing my distance and duration to build up my strength and endurance,
carefully testing the limits of my knee.
A couple of days ago, the wind finally died down, so that I was able to
see and hear all of the dusk activity.
Aquatic Warbler trills and Corncrake creaks seemed to surround me. Barn swallows and Snipes swirled overhead. The island’s willows were bustling with
Whinchats and Marsh Warblers.
Nearly every time I had come to the island, I would hear a
Corncrake calling from a short distance away.
Tonight was no exception, and I was determined to find him, especially
as I still remembered my missed opportunity one evening on our way back to the
car from a plot in May. Stealthily, I
tracked the origin of the sound to the edge of the island, close to where I had
come from. The call remained in the same
general vicinity, but the Corncrake was definitely on the move. I stopped and strained my eyes to see through the tangle of grasses surrounding me.
Suddenly, a loud creak sounded from behind, startling
me. I slowly turned and saw an eye
peering back at me through some dried vegetation, only a couple of meters from
where I stood. Presently, he stretched
out his neck and let out another call, so that I was able to get a better view
of him. He quickly retracted back into
the vegetation for further observation, as he was still unsure what to make of
me. Once I returned my attention to the
original individual, who I had been pursuing, I heard the one from behind dash
out across my path and into the grasses that I now searched. He became silent after that, perhaps from the
shock and terror instilled in him by my presence. Having little success tracking his friend, I
decided that I would leave them be and head for home with a brilliant
red-orange sunset lighting my way.
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