The Bird Refuge

Being a writer, it only seemed natural to blog. I keep a regular journal but never for the public to read. This will be a new experience, but if it gets me to consistently write without fail, so be it. I could only think of one name for this blog. It had to be named after the place I have found my most humble peace. So, for this first entry, let me introduce you to my refuge.

I must have been no more than fifteen the first time I set eyes on the refuge. My friend and I drove as west as possible, leaving our huddled city at the base of the mountains. Seated in an old blue ponitac with a digital speedometer large enough for the elderly, I watched the landscape dissolve into nothing but flat lake and flat farms. We slowed to 30 mph as the road thinned out to dirt. It made me think of our family trips to Yellowstone and the unfinished roads that led us to our little white trailer overlooking Henry’s lake.

We drove under large power towers humming low over our heads. The road twisted past long stretches of cattails and beautiful birds dipping and soaring over the patches of marshes. Strong on the air was the smell of brine shrimp, horses, and salt.. We passed a few park signs describing the common breeds of birds found at the refuge. But, I loved the large white sign claiming this land to be a “Waterfowl Rest Area.” At the end of the road, a small hill slid above and into view. I didn’t know then the hill was known as Goose Egg Island and was an overlook point for bird watchers and others who needed perspective.

Ten years later, I held my breath and listened to what I first heard at the refuge… simple peace. Stillness. The freeway was a million miles away, lining the valley with busy people. My home was swallowed up in the static that surrounded life as a single working woman.
It was here I’d spent hours with my best friend and her dad photographing this landscape in the dead of winter, watching eagles cluster in the tops of crawling trees. It was here I stood in rain, taking notes for my first creative writing class in High School. It was here I watched the sun fall low and overturn itself in the dead lake, the shore lined in salted carp. It was here I fell in love first and lost my first love.
This tiny place, lined with wide-faced trees, birds changing quick pace mid-air and animals crawling through the marshes, gave itself to peace. To a higher power above the deadlines of rushed life. No man-made sound existed, but my own breath moving the space I filled. I could turn 360 degrees completely and see the valley from every angle, its colors melted. It was mine. This refuge is my slow poem read over and over. I could feel life. It was alive as I was alive.
Everyone needs a place to fall and feel alive. I decided to name this spot on the internet after my refuge. I will post what I write and hopefully, someone may find some peace and perspective here as I have in my bird refuge.