Spring Bee Hiving Moon
Night on the plains. The Platte River, wide and shallow even now, runs not a quarter of a mile from here. I’ve seen it much higher, filling out its broad bed, roiling with the muddy redness of its banks and bottom. The big noise here comes from the trains, coal trains, I imagine, headed from the Powder River Basin coalfields in Wyoming to the hungry generating plants in the east.
Even with the whistles and the low rumble of cars moving over metal rails the night manages a sense of isolation. We are after all in a state park, well off the highway and out of metropolitan Omaha.
The big restaurant here has huge plate glass windows that overlook the Platte. Bird feeders dot the wooden walkway just outside the windows. Kate and I watched redwing blackbirds, grackles, rose-breasted grosbeaks, sparrows and goldfinches swoop down, dine together for a moment, then fly off. We dined on the inside, the birds on the outside. Just creatures, needing to eat.
After breakfast tomorrow, Kate and I will pack up and head out for Denver, arriving sometime in the afternoon. More later.
