I wrote this for class, but figured I'd share it here, since it's about nature. Enjoy!
Preface: I’ve never lived by the sea, but the very thought of doing that has always been a tranquil and distant dream of mine. Waking up in the early hours of the morning, sea-salt air drifting in through the open kitchen window, hearing the waves lapping against the sand, and the shorebirds peeping as they skitter and fly by the water’s edge… one can dream. Though I’ve never had a seaside house, I still sometimes call the ocean home in my heart. I’ve visited the Cape May shore frequently since I was a young child — my family and I would pack some bags and head out in the morning for a day trip to the beach. Of course, it was a crowded beach by a metropolis of arcades and surfing shops, hotels, and restaurants, but it was the ocean nonetheless; nothing could take away from the fact that the water before me connected to everywhere in the world. The ocean lives through rhythm. Every year, arctic terns migrate about 18,640 miles (or 30,000 kilometers). These little birds fly all the way from the Arctic Circle to the Antarctic Circle, spending four months of every year making this journey. Like most birds, arctic terns are tiny — they weigh a mere 3.5 ounces, yet they still manage. Consider the horseshoe crab. They live in the ocean for the majority of their lives, but every year, just like clockwork, they emerge. They arrive in the millions, and under the full moon, they lay their thousands of eggs in May and June. The ocean’s currents are driven by the constant winds, and its tides by gravitational forces we can’t even begin to understand. Cape May will forever be in motion, through the tiny mole crabs burrowing under the sand as a wave passes over, the sanderlings as they run along the shore, and the people as they come to admire the beauty of the place. 1: The Meadows If you were looking for a place that can be at once bustling with sudden commotion yet still and calm as can be, the South Cape May Meadows would be a contender. Sometimes, a northern harrier, a type of hawk with a flat face comparable to that of an owl’s, will be soaring over the reeds, on the hunt for waterfowl. Other times, you can hear the ocean’s waves from a mile away and the wind rustling the cattails due to the chilling silence. I recall one instance in late winter when I paid a visit to the meadows. Before I even set foot on the trail, I could hear the loud grunts and noises of waterfowl (ducks, geese, etc). Upon reaching the pond, I could see dozens of Canada geese littered throughout the frozen-over landscape, accompanied by scores of northern shovelers, a few mallards, and a couple of mute swans. I saw movement in the bare brambles lining the ice, and when I looked at them closer, they revealed themselves to be myrtle warblers hopping about — dashing little birds of drab browns, with a chest and tail of eye-catching yellow. Looking to the skies, I saw gulls in their winter plumage flying past, cutting through the strong winds with their aerodynamic nature. They were mostly herring gulls, a rather mottled and modest-looking species of gull, especially in winter. I did catch a glimpse of a great-black backed gull or two, which was exciting as they’re my favorite species. Great-blacked gulls are the largest gull on planet Earth, and it’s evident when you see them next to something like a herring gull — they dwarf them in size and attitude. They’ve been known to frequently snatch food from other birds, and they go for big game like full-sized, adult puffins. On the shore, there were still little patches of snow from the frigid weather, which made for some interestingly-textured sand: hard and thick, yet not dense. Lo and behold, there was another great black-backed sitting on the sand. I got down on my stomach and watched it through the viewfinder of my camera. Its feathers ruffled and moved in the wind, and after a short while of staying still, it stood up and tucked one leg up into its body, which made it look like a one-legged bird. Birds do this often, especially when it’s cold, to retain body heat. Their legs are featherless, of course, and so by keeping one of them warm they reduce the amount of body heat lost (half the amount of heat lost)! In the spring, there are plenty of shorebirds around the meadows. American oystercatchers, tall black-and-white shorebirds with bright orange eyes and beaks, come to nest here on the East Coast. I saw a few of them, standing tall, behind protective fencing put in to keep shorebird nests safe from would-be egg tramplers. Short-billed dowitchers, dunlins, least terns, Forster’s terns, white-rumped sandpipers, and lesser yellowlegs were spotted too. On days like this, it’s not uncommon to see members of the order Odonata (dragonflies and damselflies), like forktails and bluets, which were quite abundant at that point. After visiting the South Cape May Meadows in so many different seasons, I’ve been able to observe the rhythm of change. The changing seasons bring new climates, and new climates bring in new life. The landscape is much more barren and cold come fall and winter, but vibrant and full of plants when spring and summer roll around. When the meadow is frigid, it brings with it winter gulls and migrating waterfowl, and when the cold departs, it leaves room for the warmth to grow, and it does grow in spring, bringing insects and plants and little shorebirds. All a day’s work for the rhythmic cycle of the ocean, and the natural world. Like clockwork.
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