Some notes made on the Tennessee

River last spring:

Chuck Will's Widow sounded

off suddenly after twilight had silenced the other birds last evening.

Even now, with sunlight burning shyly through the river fog, the customary

birdsong has not returned, except for a solitary cardinal with a downward

turn to his song of "cheer-cheer-cheer."

The sky is impossibly blue,

the new leaves a hopeful green. Coffee cup in hand, I see something flutter

from the trees to the water a hundred yards or so behind the boat. I can

see it struggling in the water, and worry that it might be a bird.

It's not a bird. A katydid?

I wonder, although it's too early for that late summer singer. Maybe a

large grasshopper, or a luna moth. I see pale green, stiff wings and watch

its desperate attempts to regain the air, to no avail.

"A bass is going to have

a good breakfast," I point out to Dave, and watch for the inevitable.

Finally the insect is still, and I can see just his head above the water.

He's either drowned or too exhausted to forestall certain death.

My attention turns to my efforts

to call in some birds. When I look