540629. CHAPTER
Maien watched the nature at sunrise
and run away, when the struggle
for survival began there.
Manuscript from: Carl Mai, How it went on, Berlin 1941-92
It is dewy and sunny in the morning on the hike to the lonely pond in the meadows, popularly known as the peat pit. The sun has just risen and is still like a fiery ball on the horizon.
The dewdrops hang like beads on the leaves and grasses. The tops of the trees sway in the purring breeze and everything is imbued with a pristine solemnity.
The blackbird flutes out its morning song at the top of its voice. In addition, a house redstart clicks down from the roof and in the willows the great tit chirps in competition with the blue tit.
I wander devoutly through the awakening nature to the peat bog. Low over the earth the barn swallows hunt with torn beaks, which they use as a small catch net for flies and mosquitoes to their nutrition. How poor we humans are. Fried food only flies into our mouths in the land of milk and honey. And besides, we can't fly at all.
The starlings in the branches mimic all kinds of bird calls and in the oak crown the wood warbler clamors. Incessantly accompanies me the colorful Sieglitz at the edge of the path. The birds and animals show no shyness at all before me lonely wanderer.
Several magpies peck on a juicy meadow after fat worms. Their plumage shimmers in the morning sun. And from the high beeches sounds the merry Zilzalp of the willow warbler.
Arrived at the pond, where I want to observe the world at the water, my eyes and ears become even bigger. From the nearby fall foliage a pheasant caws, pawing at worms and previous year's seed. Suddenly I see a deer in a nearby cornfield. Fortunately, I have a headwind. I stand still while it peers at me. Leisurely it grazes around and bites here and there a stalk in the meadow. It must take me for a fence post. So calmly it continues to stalk around in the grass, picking food here and there. But slowly it gets wind of me and flees with high rates into the close bushes.
Cautiously, I slowly stalk the nearby peat bog quietly so as not to startle any living creature. The mirror-smooth dark water shines in the rising sunlight. On the far shore, the waves ripple gently. There, at the edge of the rush belt, a pond hen swims along with three young. The young ones always want to get into the rushes, where the old one can't get in because she is too big, and so they get into trouble with their mother.
In the shallow water the frogs do not let themselves be lumpen and quarren instead of quacking, while two pond warblers buzz around each other in the air.
Cautiously I can creep with the Gequake to my branch fork seat in the tree at the bank. Arrived at the top, I spread out my brought wool blanket and wrap myself in it because of the coolness and to give off no smell for the animal world. My gaze wanders over the peaceful appearing pond in the cool, clear sunny morning air.
Meanwhile, a chick-sized moorhen swims along in the rushes. All alone. With nodding head like the old ones. Sometimes here and sometimes there, its beak occasionally dipping into the dark water. Determinedly funny it disappears again in the riparian forest.
And again the frogs suddenly growl and croak incessantly. It's lucky that my music teacher doesn't want to have the notes. I never know where the "A" is on the devilishly straight staves. Quarrk, knurr, knuhrrr, knur quark, quahk, quahahaquak. "You're quacking all over the place!"
Now the mother pond hen is getting nervous. A piercing staccato to the frog croaking. Kürrk, kürrk, kürrk. The concert begins. The frogs with the pond chickens. "Maybe pond chickens even eat frogs?" So one by one, the pond hen family gathers and leaves for shore leave in a nearby bulrush cove.
Next to me on the telegraph pole, its wires running along the biotope, a raven crow settles down, wings flapping. "Ärrrk, ärrk, arg," was her opinion. Then, when she sees me, she brushes off again. "I must have been too big for her in my tree up there."
For the Rakrae that left me, the titmice now join me in the branches. My good green wool blanket camouflage makes them overconfident. At a distance of only one meter they sit down in the branches and start an eerie clamor. Soon better than the sparrows. I can well observe how they fluff themselves up to it. But just as quickly as they had appeared, the band of birds rages away again. "I understand that perfectly. It's enough to have seen me once!"
In between, the mummy pond dog fetches her young back to shore because they keep pecking at the rushes. Eating too much pudding is not good either. When the cows go into the clover, their stomachs explode. Fat and round they stagger then over the field ways into their stable.
Over at HaZwei, I had spelled out the surrounding trees for my terrain drawings, a green woodpecker pecks away in the rotten bark. Like a machine gun. Tack, tack, tack, tack, ... and the frogs growl along with their water-slurping mouths. Why do people say, "Shut up?"
Because some people can croak like the frogs, especially if they belong to the ruling class. There the Quaken becomes then even Quark.
The morning concert of the fauna is now approaching its climax: the frogs continue to croak in the muddy bank. The woodpecker hammers in the trees that the chips fly. A ringed dove coos in the nearby branches with its thick crop. And the pheasant caws again from the undergrowth. Above me, fluttering wildly, about twenty lapwings get ready to land. "Knui, knuii, knuiih," is their musical encore. And on the smooth water a great crested grebe shows itself with loud clapping as it dives in and out again and again with a powerful swing. The water beads down his plumage in shiny drops.
The coolness of the summer sun morning now gives way to a pleasant warmth. I roll up my blanket and descend from my perch in the treetop to sneak through the riparian bushes.
The coolness of the summer sunny morning now gives way to a pleasant warmth. I roll up my blanket and descend from my perch in the treetop to sneak through the riparian brush.
The pond hens are still playing and teasing around with their mother. They can't resist teasing their watchful mother. From the nearby beech forest, an oriole whistles over without being seen. In the bushes, the nightingale sings its friendly little song, even though its territorial battle is already over. Some of them just can't get enough. A deaf man sits on the old, gnarled oak tree. He's just flailing around and can't make a decent sound. Perhaps he was angry because his little dove had left him.
Then I made my way home. Everywhere the garden warbler in its inconspicuous dress was twittering in the bushes. When I reached the last oak, I cast my eyes on the adjacent green lush meadow. There strutted again a colorful iridescent ring-necked pheasant, pawing for edibles. Only fifteen meters I came stalking up to him, to observe him closer at his work. However, he did not allow that. He recognized me and disappeared wing-whirring into the next undergrowth.
Then there were some partridges pawing around on the meadow, which had not yet become aware of me. The meadow ground they shared with some magpies and lapwings. What a wonderful and diverse company.
However, it was no longer I who disturbed the community. Now the birds of prey appeared: the sparrow hawk, two shaker hawks and a goshawk dominated the airspace. The fight in nature now took on proportions that I no longer wanted to see.
