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Imagine if you would, a meadow rising gently to the west rudely interrupted by a depleted gravel pit. It is February and the snow lies deep, the ambient temperature warms to forty above while an east wind adds a sufficient chill to remind one that winter is not yet done. The sun, from a clear blue sky declines to the southern horizon, its parallel rays striking the smooth contours of this unnatural bowl. Pioneer poplars at its center grow and there nestled among the branches thirty-six mourning doves luxuriate, beneficiaries of man's exploitation now transfigured by laws of physics into a natural hyperbolic dish. (West Rutland Marsh monitoring walk, Thursday, February 20, 2003.) Cheers, Roy Pilcher, Proctor, Vermont Speaking the Same Language.