Bobolinks!

On Sunday morning three friends and I went to visit the Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary in Marshfield, MA. It was my first time there, though all three of my friends had visited before.

We started down a trail leading through a field of tall grass, purple flowers, rows of trees on one side, and the Webster Pond on our right. In front of us was the entrance to a dense, woodsy area. This path, the Pond Loop Trail, seemed the lesser traveled of the various trials.

Almost immediately we came across a purple martin colony, consisting of man-made, round, white bird houses. Hoards of purple martins were flying around feeding their young. Occasionally we spied the little fledgling heads popping out to greet their mamas and papas. Though the day was overcast, and it was difficult to see the iridescent purple of the birds, it was a awesome sight nonetheless. 

Purple Martins

After continuing to look around, I spotted another bird on top of the tall grass stalks to our right. After peering more closely, my friend Willy exclaimed, "It's a bobolink!"

I was very excited!

Since it's only within the past few months that I've have taken up the hobby of bird watching with any seriousness, I am a novice. I've diligently recorded the more common New England birds in my 'bird' journal, such as the cardinal, robin, tufted titmouse, nuthatch and chickadee. 

Lately I have been eagerly scouting out more rare sights, such as cedar waxwings, redstarts and yellow warblers. The bobolink has been on my 'must see' list since the beginning, mostly because of my love of Emily Dickinson, and a particular poem she wrote about the bobolink.  

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –               

I keep it, staying at Home –

With a Bobolink for a Chorister –

And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –

I, just wear my Wings –

And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,

Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –

And the sermon is never long,

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –

I’m going, all along.

Emily Dickinson