WHAT'S FLYING OVER THE RIVER?

Rex Burress

I paused by the river in mid-May, and blowing upstream, bourne by a brisk breeze, were thousands of tiny white fluffs of cottonwood seeds in the air, traveling like little ambassadors of the trees, hoping to spread their species.

The outpouring had popped from a seed capsule to await the wind and go whiffing on their way, kept aloft by the cottony filaments attached to each seed. The plan was to be dispersed, hopefully, to a fertile anchorage somewhere along the shore.

Near the Feather River Nature Center, a cottonwood seed had landed high on the railroad embankment among the stones in an apparently unfortunate location. However, that seed prospered as it dropped onto a spring seep, and the roots clawed through the rubble to soak the seepage and hold onto life. Today, there is a 20' Fremont's Cottonwood growing on that rocky ledge 20 feet above the road, clinging to its precarious perch.

Thus it is with all seeds: Where the seed lands determines the plant's fate. The cottonwood needs extra water, and the fortunate seeds that drop near the river...or a spring in the hills, flourish. It is somewhat similar to mammal sperm; of thousands, one will reach its goal; one will be the lucky one; one will have an opportunity to thrive. Thus the seed is planted. Random arrangement? Fate? Luck? Divine intervention?

Also up in the air on that fair May day, was a swarm of honey bees crossing the river. They seemed to hover in mid-channel as if confused by the charging current, but then they recovered and continued toward the fish hatchery. Maybe there was a hole in a cottonwood that scouts had discovered. It takes a lot of decisions to keep a bee village going!

The romanticism of honey bee colonies is not only about the worker bees frolicking in fields of sexy flowers, gathering nectar from the bowers of sweet lovers seeking fertilization, but it involves the scout bees that pass information to the hive committee and the queen. Imagine! The scouts fill their tanks with honey-fuel and go forth into the wild, searching for a suitable site to accommodate a new colony. Given that guidance, the queen leads the way and a few thousand loyal workers follow to make a new home.

I didn't notice if the cliff swallows sailing through the air seeking insects caught any bees, but the swarm is tightly packed in flight and that discourages intrusion. The swallows were from the Table Mountain bridge where they plaster mud nests under the overhang. They gather mud from a puddle, and mouthful by mouthful, they construct a jug-shaped nest adhered to sheer concrete. The bridge structure is better than a cliff-side where rain can ruin a nest.

Some animals have adapted to an alternate lifestyle near manmade structures, especially the barn swallows that have accepted wooden shelter to the extreme. I remember a fiber and mud nest in the barn on the farm, just above the horse stalls. The trim birds would fly in through a window and had no fear of the farmer who cherished their fly-eating presence. Bluebirds, bees, hummingbirds, and robins mingle with man, accepting his tolerance, but seldom making actual contact. Some call it cooperation...and others call it God. I don't know what it's called when rats, mice, and termites move in.

The swallows are the main occupants of the summer sky as the waterfowl, warblers, and winter gulls go on their individual journeys in a new season.

I'm sure I would have seen more wildlife over the river if I had lingered longer. Alas, there are duties to do, and miles to go before I sleep...

“...The woods are lovely, dark and deep,/But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep,/And miles to go before I sleep.”--Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods On a Snowy Evening”