The walk into Ferd’s Bog, where I heard the winter wren, has a primeval feel. It was very quiet, though as we approached the bog itself, we heard a few bush-dwellers rustling about. This one, a hermit thrush (I think), posed so nicely my photo should be better than it is.
On to the bog, traversed by a boardwalk. Earlier in the summer, the grass is red with pitcher plants. Not so much so in August.
Cedar waxwings were everywhere, making their high-pitched noises that, I’ve read, are sometimes too high for the human ear to pick up.
The walk out is equally beautiful, of course, though it seemed all new because we were moving in a different direction.