Seabirds at Port Orchard

I am a creature of habit, especially when it’s a habit I enjoy, like following a visit to Theler Wetlands with a visit to Port Orchard to check out seabirds I find there but not at Theler. I’ve been somewhat remiss about visiting Port Orchard in the last few years because they have been doing extensive repairs to the marina, which has chased most of the seabirds away.  Luckily, they seemed to have completed repairs, and the birds have started coming back, even if not yet in the numbers they used to be seen there.

The marina used to be my go-to place to get shots of Horned Grebes in breeding colors because there were lots of them hanging around, but on this visit I only saw two in non-breeding plumage. 

Two ducks swimming on a calm water surface.


There were more Barrow’s Goldeneye than any other species, and I took lots of shots, but I like this little guy who was off on his own best.

A male goldeneye duck swimming on the surface of a rippling water body, showcasing its distinctive black and white plumage and bright yellow eye.


I also got a shot of a female Hooded Merganser, one of Leslie’s favorite birds.

A small duck swimming on a reflective pond, showcasing its distinctive hairstyle and subtle coloration.


Probably the best shot of the day was this one of a Pelagic Cormorant drying off its wings.

A cormorant spreading its wings while perched on a wooden platform near water.



You can do a lot with underexposed shots with modern photography apps, but nothing quite matches bright sunshine. It’s only in bright sunshine that you see that iridescent green on them.

Birdwatching in the Pacific Northwest: A Sunny Day Adventure

It’s been a long, wet Winter here in the Pacific Northwest, and it doesn’t look like the rain is ready to leave quite yet.  As you may have noticed, that’s meant a lack of bird pictures. Hopefully, that’s about to change, though, as we’ve had a couple of sunny days, allowing us to bird Belfair, and, more recently, the Port Townsend area.

Just because it’s sunny here in Tacoma doesn’t mean that it is necessarily going to be sunny where the birds are, though, as we found at our visit to Theler where we were greeted by fog

A misty walking path surrounded by trees, creating a serene and tranquil atmosphere.


 and a general lack of birds.  Most of the birds we did see seemed more interested in finding food than in posing for pictures,

A bird perched upside down on a branch, reaching for small berries.


at least until we encountered this Pheasant

A pheasant standing in dry grass, with droplets of water on the grass and a blurred background.

Along the trail. I assume he was probably raised locally since pheasants are uncommon here in Western Washington, and he seemed largely indifferent to the cameras pointed at his face.

My favorite picture from our morning walk at Belfair was this shot of a Spotted Towhee swallowing a berry.

A close-up of a bird with dark feathers and an orange belly, perched on a branch, holding a berry in its beak.

It didn’t hurt that the sun had finally burned most of the fog off.

At other times, I might have been disappointed by how few birds we saw, but it felt great to walk four miles without getting rained on.   

The Silent Forest Amidst the Noise of Jets

It’s easy to forget that this whole ChatGPT/“The Darkling Thrush” thing started with a simple nod of the head to McNulty’s Ascendance, a book that I could easily identify with, one that helped remind me how I feel about Nature, and the Olympics, in particular.  

Originally, I was going to include a different second poem called Breath that ends with: “Timeless beauty and human grief/between these poles/the world’s suffering wakes anew/with each striking sunrise.”

However, after all the long-winded discussion following my comments on McNulty’s “Varied Thrush Calling in Autumn,” somehow it seems appropriate to circle back and mention this McNulty poem, which complements the one previously posted.  

DECEPTION PASS BEFORE THE BOMBS FALL 

Navy jets strafing the heavens, 

the trees gather small intermittent silence

into themselves. 

I walk out through wet winter brush. 

I stop to listen to the story of a leaning cedar 

as it folds its bark over an ancient burn. 

Along charred heartwood 

I feel the rough burnt edge of old bark, 

the burgeoning growth of healthy sapwood, 

as a fighter jet splits the sky. 

Into the leaf’s-breadth of silence 

that follows, a winter wren utters 

Its clear, ebullient song. 

Its notes pierce the darkness of war-noise 

like a blossom of light, resplendent 

with an ounce and a half of hope. 

A digital collage featuring contrasting scenes: two fighter jets emitting fire and smoke in the sky, a close-up of a textured tree trunk, a picturesque river and bridge landscape, and a singing bird surrounded by musical notes and a glowing aura.

Although I’ve been in that area once or twice, I didn’t remember it clearly so I looked it up in Google: “Deception Pass State Park, Washington’s most visited state park, features accessible, stunning old-growth forests, particularly in the Hoypus Point and Hoypus Hill areas of Whidbey Island. These, sometimes 700-850+ year-old, Douglas-fir and cedar forests offer miles of hiking trails, providing a rare, low-elevation, and easily accessible glimpse into the region’s ancient, pre-settlement ecosystems.” 

The Whidbey Island Naval Station is just south of the area.  I’ve only driven by it once or twice, but I remember thinking the Naval Base seemed strangely out of place so near these old-growth forests.  

The poem seems balanced on that incongruity – the stillness of the ancient forest blasted with the sound of jets taking off and landing.  

Of course, it’s probably not literally true that “trees gather small intermittent silence/into themselves,” but they do block most noise, and the Pacific Northwest rainforests seem to do a particularly good job of doing that. 

Perhaps that silence is what makes hiking in the forest so meditative and allows us to notice things we miss when we are distracted by the chatter going on in our heads.  Luckily, I’ve never encountered the kind of jet noise McNulty describes here while hiking in PNW forests, but I’m often distracted by the sound of passenger jets flying over while hiking Mt. Rainier or other Cascade hikes.  There seems to be no place where you can totally avoid human noise pollution.

Luckily, that cacophony doesn’t manage to entirely drown out the elegant Winter Wrens’ song, a song offering hope that man’s destruction won’t destroy Nature, that we, like the “leaning cedar as it folds its bark over an ancient burn,” will be able to restore what our bombs have destroyed.

Unfortunately, our current bombing of Iran barely leaves us “with an ounce and a half of hope.”

Debating Poetry Interpretation with Chat GPT

If we don’t accept the concept that philosophically Thomas Hardy was a Pessimist and, instead, accept him as a Realist, or even as an Ameliorist, as he claimed he was, it seems reasonable to argue that despite the bleak world he saw in front of him, the Thrush’s song offered some hope even to the narrator.

I see the Thrush’s song as a contrast to the morbid scenario described in the first two stanzas.  

At once a voice arose among

      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

Perhaps the narrator feels the song is ill-suited to the moment, that it is too joyous; how can it be“illimited” on a day like this?  It is, after all, winter, and birds are much less apt to sing in the Winter than they are in Spring when they are trying to attract a mate or claim a territory.  

Still, there is something impressive about a “frail, gaunt, and small” thrush that has obviously suffered through several winters, refusing to give up.  

So little cause for carolings

      Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

      Afar or nigh -round,

That I could think there trembled through

      His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

      And I was unaware.

The narrator doesn’t accept this sign of hope blindly. Instead, he hears the message of the song not as a sign of “joy illimited,” but as a message of hope, trembling, full of anxiety or despair.

I spent days trying to convince ChatGPT that this was the correct interpretation.  I even went back and discussed Hardy’s novels, particularly Jude the Obscure, and all I could get it to admit was that Hardy was a great writer.  

Finally,I decided to treat this as a debate and asked: How do those who argue that the Thrush’s song is, indeed, a sign of hope that this too will pass support their argument? This is ChatGBT’s response: 

Those who read the thrush as a genuine sign that “this too will pass” build their case on several textual and contextual elements. Their argument is not naïve optimism; it is typically grounded in structure, diction, seasonal symbolism, and poetic tradition.

Here is how that case is usually constructed.

First, the seasonal framework implies renewal. The poem takes place at the end of the year—December 31, 1900. Winter imagery dominates, but winter in pastoral and literary tradition is rarely terminal; it is cyclical. “The ancient pulse of germ and birth” may appear “shrunken hard and dry,” but the very word “germ” implies latent life. Advocates of the hopeful reading argue that Hardy is describing dormancy, not extinction. The thrush’s song anticipates spring before it is visible.

Second, the song interrupts despair structurally. The first two stanzas accumulate images of death, sterility, and historical exhaustion. Then, abruptly:

“At once a voice arose…”

The tonal shift is decisive. The poem does not gradually warm; hope breaks in. Supporters argue that this structural turn signals more than biological noise—it signals counterpoint. The thrush’s “full-hearted evensong / Of joy illimited” directly contradicts the speaker’s emotional state. The energy of the language—“full-hearted,” “illimited”—is excessive compared to the restraint elsewhere in the poem. That surplus suggests authentic vitality.

Third, the capitalization of “Hope” is treated as evidence. By capitalizing “Hope,” Hardy invokes the theological virtue. Those arguing for a hopeful interpretation suggest he would not elevate the word unless he meant to grant it ontological weight. “Some blessed Hope” echoes Christian eschatological language: the idea that historical suffering precedes renewal. The thrush’s evensong aligns with liturgical evening prayer—traditionally a moment of trust before darkness.

Fourth, the bird’s age strengthens the hopeful case rather than weakening it. The thrush is “aged, frail, gaunt, and small.” Yet it sings ecstatically. That contrast supports an interpretation of resilient endurance. If even this diminished creature can produce “joy illimited,” then vitality persists despite visible decline. The frailty becomes emblematic of survival through adversity.

Fifth, Hardy’s phrasing leaves room for belief. The speaker says:

“I could think there trembled through

His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope…”

Defenders of hope emphasize “trembled through.” The verb suggests something real, though subtle. The speaker may not possess the hope, but he does not dismiss it. He acknowledges the possibility of knowledge beyond his awareness. That epistemic humility opens space for hope rather than closing it.

Sixth, Hardy’s broader oeuvre includes moments of muted persistence. While often labeled pessimistic, Hardy frequently depicts endurance rather than annihilation. The hopeful reading places this poem within that pattern: not triumph, but continuity.

In summary, the pro-hope argument rests on cyclical seasonality, structural contrast, theological diction, resilient vitality, and the poem’s refusal to negate the possibility of transcendence. The thrush does not convert the speaker—but it introduces a credible alternative to despair. Whether that alternative is metaphysical truth or instinctive persistence is the interpretive divide.Those who read the thrush as a genuine sign that “this too will pass” build their case on several textual and contextual elements. Their argument is not naïve optimism; it is typically grounded in structure, diction, seasonal symbolism, and poetic tradition.

I was a little amazed by ChatGPt’s response because it was almost exactly the reasoning I had used in the many years since I first read the poem.  

This experience suggests that how you ask ChatGPT a question determines the answer you get. There’s not much value in just sending students home with instructions to analyze a paarticular poem if they have access to a computer.  

Teachers, and, thankfully, I’m no longer one, will have to devise new ways to involve their students and how to “grade their work.”  

If I were still teaching, I might ask students why they agree or disagree with the AI’s interpretation of the poem or have them discuss how the poem makes them feel, whether that’s similar to or different from what AI suggests.  

Heck, teachers may end up having to allow students to respond to a poem, or poems they’ve read through other media, like drawings or songs. I loved the response I got from freshman students many, many years ago, when I allowed them to use other art forms to respond to the poems they had read.  I especially loved the collages that some students made. Of course, other teachers frowned on that approach, wanting students to “use their words.”