Birdsong

 It was quiet on my walk this morning. Peaceful. 

Until I got partway through the walk. I had been aware of the birds--they are always chirping around here. Or honking (in the fall when the geese fly in huge flocks overhead) or cawing (when the black birds harass the deer and geese). But this morning, it began in the quiet way I always pictured when I sang the primary song: 

In the leafy tree tops, the birds sing good morning.

They're first to see the sun, they must tell everyone. 

In the leafy tree tops, the birds sing good morning. 

I was thinking of that song as I walked, listening to the birds chirp and tweet and thinking that I didn't have the leafy trees of the song, but I still had the morning birdsong. Suddenly, the song became a squabble. I don't know what else to call it. The birds were squawking and squeaking. I looked up, but I couldn't see them. There had to be a lot of them, but I could only see one on a rooftop. Then, I found a few in another tree, hidden among the leaves that still clung to the branches. As I looked, I could see a few birds here and there, but nothing to account for the racket. 

In a few minutes, they quieted. Whatever the fuss was, they had, apparently resolved it. I went back to humming my childhood song again as I walked. A soothing start to the day. 

Ice Hills at the Lake

I had heard about the ice piles on Utah Lake, so I thought I would go check them out. They fascinate me! I mean, it's a lake and we aren't even that wintry yet--no snow to speak of, moderate winter temperatures. So how does this happen? How do ice sheets form and collide to build these sculptures? 

I learned on the news later that cold weather (even our mildly cold weather) can form a sheet of ice on the lake. When the wind blows, it can shift the plates of ice, forcing them to crash into each other, building up these piles of ice that look like they should be in the North Sea, not central Utah. 

I love that nature can create interesting outcomes when a particular set of circumstances come together. 

Sometimes nature's combinations can be dangerous: I'm reading a book called Under a Flaming Sky about a wildfire in  Minnesota in 1894, a horrible combination of natural events (wind, temperature, and low humidity) that trapped 2,000 people and killed 400 in 5 hours. The specific conditions combined to create hurricane-force winds and fire tornadoes, even something called gas bubbles that floated and burst over people's heads.  

Sometimes nature's combinations can be beautiful: Raised in Alaska, I was sometimes awakened in the night, bundled in a blanket, and nudged outside to watch the night sky dance with color from the Aurora Borealis. I've looked up what combination creates this beautiful sight: solar winds, charged particles and something called magnetospheric plasma, whatever that is. I don't understand the combination, but I do understand the result--beautiful sky paintings of red and green that captivated me as a child--and still do. 

The ice hills remind me that the world can be a place filled with wonder. They remind me to open my eyes and look around me for those wonderful things.