First for this Fall

I took my coffee outside this morning and listened.  Onshore breeze, so the deep boom of the surf was a background for all the neighborhood sounds.  Somehow, even with all of the tsunami scares, the constant presence of the sound of the sea coming and going is reassuring.  Something will get all of us, worrying is unproductive.   Until the next siren..... 
The river birch leaves whispered in the light wind, and the last of the lovely huge dragonflies hummed over the nasturtiums, hunting smaller insects. 
A mallard pair had appeared in our pond overnight.  Natty male, decked out with green head flashing in the morning light, dun female.  She was the one having fun.  The male sat, decoy-like, in the center of the pond, while the female swam lazy loops around him, occasionally dipping her head under water for a drink.  She would then tip back her head and swallow, rainbow drops falling around her neck.  All this time the male quietly spoke to her.  A soft version of a quack, nothing comical or silly about it, as he followed her with his eyes.
Then the best thing.  A low, soft, almost nasal whistle that sounds like it's coming from deep in the forest.  Varied thrush!  A gorgeous bird that we see in the lowlands in fall and winter.  In the spring they relocate to higher elevations to breed and spend the summer.   They are sort  of an altitudinal migrator.  They go from high to low elevations.  And they have a lovely, haunting call.   Think of a referee whistle, but in the low range, without urgency, and in the depth of the forest.  Well, it's really hard to describe.  And they're the perfect colors for fall, deep orangey-red and black.  They're dressed for the season. If you squint your eyes, you'll think you're seeing a robin, and that's because they are close relatives - both in the thrush family.
 I could barely pick out this one's call over the other bird song and neighborhood sounds.  I know I'll see him or another one occasionally under our shore pine, gleaning fallen seed from the feeders.  

It's that wonderful, turning-in time of year when there is a soft mist over the water, all the reeds turn golden and the winter birds return.  And those harvest moons, huge and pale gold, setting in the west over the ocean early in the mornings.  Magical.  There is something quite reassuring about the predictable, lovely changes of the seasons.  Life will throw us curve balls -  but for me,  if the varied thrush returns and sings deep in the trees, I know I'll be OK.