Subject: [Tweeters] Patrick
Date: Sep 23 08:10:29 2007
From: csidles at isomedia.com - csidles at isomedia.com


Dear Tweets and dear, dear Ruth,
Such unspeakable sorrow. Wild anger that a young man of such heart is gone
from this world, the future years with him stolen away from us. Nature
itself dimmed because nature for us is nature shared, and we can't share
it with Patrick anymore.

The heart is a pump, say the scientists, but the poets know it is more. I
know it is more because it hurts so much today. How can emptiness feel so
sharp a pain?

We are left with memories. They are vivid in my mind. Patrick and Ruth
running up and down Huntzinger Road, making sure that every single birder
saw the gray-crowned rosy finches roosting in the cliffs. Patrick and Ruth
in the rain in Olympia, getting drenched and not caring because it was
more important to relocate the redwing so that birders coming from all
over the country could see it. Patrick posting his Temminck's stint as
quickly as he could so that all of us could rush right out and see this
never-to-be-seen-again rarity. Patrick and Ruth standing disconsolately on
the dock at Westport while leading a WOS trip, disappointed by the lack of
godwits - and then Patrick casually pointing out a juvenile black-crowned
night-heron flying mere yards overhead. I have never, before or since,
seen a night-heron at Westport.

We have a birding community in our state that is the envy of other
regions. We have an ethic in our state that says, "When you see a bird,
share." It is joy to share. We often take community for granted,
especially when we live in one as gracious and generous as ours. But
community does not come about by accident. It is created by the people who
are in it. It can be strong, and kind. It can nurture the young and care
for the old. It can also be the opposite. That ours is so generous is due
in large part to Patrick and Ruth. I always got the feeling from both of
them that the reason they were so very happy to find a rare bird was so
that they could give it to the rest of us. Great gifts they gave.

The last time I saw Patrick was at the Brady Loop in early May. John and I
had pulled over next to the bridge. We were scanning the riparian habitat
for early spring migrants. Patrick and Ruth drove up and joined us.
Whenever I ran into them in the field, I never greeted them effusively.
Like a family member who comes into the haven of a beloved home, I would
only smile at them in welcome. We were home when we were in the field like
that. Then Ruth and I would start to gossip, each of us listening to the
other but also talking at the same time. Patrick and John would be walking
up and down, looking for birds.

On this particular day, we were hoping for warblers, my favorite bird.
Ruth and I went on talking, but we were looking as well. Then Patrick
said, "There's a yellow warbler in here." Ruth and I focused on the
business at hand. We scanned the trees and shrubs as hard as we could. I
saw a flash of yellow, but really no bird, just that brief gleam of color.

Then Patrick. "I hear him. I hear him!" We ran to his side. "I hear him."
And there he was, black eyes upon us for a nanosecond, the yellow as pure
as yellow can be, the red streaks delineated in the sun, every feather
showing. And then gone, into the deep woods, only his call floating back
to us on the wind.

I hear him. I hear him. In my memory, I still hear him, that beautiful
young man who is with us no more. My tears flow. I am so very, very sad.

- Connie