Most osprey nests are built high in the forks of cypress snags,
This nest was built less than six feet above Chocowinity Bay’s normal level. From its size, the nest had been occupied for successive years. Then the storm came, driving the water before it.
After Hurricane Florence, nothing remained but the bitter end of some roots.
The osprey that inhabited the nest had already migrated south for the winter. If they return, they’ll have to begin again…or steal another bird’s nest.
I live now on the shore of Chocowinity Bay beneath Bald Cypress and Longleaf Pine. From my garret window I can see through the trees across the bay to the far shore and Whichard Beach.
The bay is a shallow dint in the land that empties into the Pamlico River which empties into the Pamlico Sound. The Sound itself is separated from the Atlantic Ocean by North Carolina’s Outer Banks.
The Japanese have a word for the reason you get out of bed in the morning: ikigai. In the wonderful economy of the Japanese language, ikigai refers to the source of value in your life, the things that make your life worthwhile. It includes the mental and spiritual circumstances you feel makes your life valuable. Whatever your ikigai, it’s personal and specific and faithfully reflects your inner self.
The salt march at the head of Chocowinity Bay is my ikigai, the place where I return time and again. It’s miniscule, bounded by a perimeter of less than 3 miles containing 3/10 of a square mile of surface area, and yet it feels infinite. The Bald Cypress standing like congregants beside the water, the morning light filtered through tendrils of Spanish moss, and the meadows of saltgrass carved into islands seem to exist outside of hectic, human time. The whistle of the Norfolk Southern locomotive approaching the railroad bridge at the head of the bay feels unstuck in time.
I paddle to the salt march each morning, sometimes before first light. It’s a short distance, half a mile, but a world apart.
There is a boundary to the marsh. Beyond a vaguely defined edge there is a deepening quiet and sense of reverence. Certainly, I may be guilty of projecting my internal landscape but maybe I’m perceiving something projected by the landscape itself. It’s arrogant to think we stand apart from the ground beneath our feet. Our rationality was always a thin disguise.
The light is always changing within the marsh. There are moments of stunning beauty as the bones of a ghost forest are silhouetted by the rising sun or clouds plunge the marsh into a patchwork quilt of sunlight and shadow. Then the light changes, the moment passes, and I’m distracted by the skirling cry of an eagle or the indignant squawk of blue heron.
