In recent months there has been a welcomed increase in the number of great blue herons gracing Mississippi coast beaches. Riding for miles down the beach road, one counts scores of the large, handsome birds standing in the shallows. After the hurricane and oil spill, there were only a few. The renewed heron population is testament to nature’s recuperative power. As the Roman poet Horace said, “You can drive out nature with a pitchfork, yet she’ll constantly be running back.” -- Diary, autumn 2011

There is a weedy bush by the seawall that we monitor each day. Because of winter weather (the temperature now stands at 35 degrees), the bush is leafless; its brittle, withered branches tremble in the strong north wind. From appearances, one would conclude that the plant had perished. But not so! In remarkable response to the harsh season, the bush’s moisture has descended into the root system. Come spring, the sap will rise again, and the branches will sprout tender, green leaves. -- Diary, autumn 2011

Henry David Thoreau, the great naturalist, kept two journals -- one to describe factually the actual things that he saw that day, the other for inspired poetry. Sometimes he found it difficult to decide which notebook to use.* We appreciate the problem. Today we watch the flight of a herring gull, gliding effortlessly without wing beats. The last sentence is factual, but the gull’s flight is surely poetry in motion. Into which journal would Thoreau have made the entry? -- Diary, autumn 2011

On today’s walk, our thoughts regress to a time, centuries ago, when our predecessors, American Indians, occupied this shore. Theirs was an ancient culture more attuned to nature than ours, a culture linked intimately with the mysteries of rising suns and half-moons. Their culture has virtually vanished. Although we do not romanticize their encounters with nature, we remember that they were people much like us who trod this sand, who admired a sunset, as we do this afternoon. -- Diary, autumn 2011

Crabbers are at work this cold morning. Their broad-beamed open skiff, powered by an outboard motor, is buffeted by high waves. Frigidly cold, the weather is unpleasant. No other craft is to be seen in the waters of the Sound. Yet the crabbers visit each of their submerged traps, empty crabs into a holding tank, then place new bait in the wire container. It is hard work, especially today, because the strong wind makes it difficult to navigate the boat to the traps’ precise locations. -- Diary, autumn 2011

In all their golden glory, daffodils are blooming near the beach road, flowers that dare appear while winter yet lingers, yellow blooms nodding in the wind. In some gardens they are refined and cultivated with care, but the ones we see today are wildflowers, springing up unbidden from weedy brambles. Among several other poets, William Wordsworth was charmed by their splendor and wrote, “…A host of golden daffodils…beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze…”* — Diary, spring 2011