A co-worker of mine recently remarked on the contrast between my last few columns. He told me that while he found the one on robins interesting, he said it was a bit drier and more scientifically written than usual. The column on the sora, on the other hand, was much more enjoyable – his wife had commented, “It made you feel as if you were right there.”

I have to admit the latter is also much more enjoyable to write. So I decided to devote this column to a pure, unadulterated “you are here as well” viewpoint.

A clear, sunny evening last week found me again visiting what is fast becoming a favorite birding spot – the little marsh off Witter Farm Road in Orono. I had biked down to the wetland around 7 o’clock. The slanting, deep golden sunlight of the mid-August evening transformed everything around me. It seemed to make colors richer and more vibrant, even while adding its own glowing hue to them. A refreshing breeze ruffled the marsh vegetation and revealed the pale green undersides of the leaves of deciduous trees.

I heard the harsh, scolding calls of a marsh wren. It was quite close; in seconds I was rewarded with an unusually unobstructed view of this little wetland sprite as it clung to the top of two cattails as they bobbed in the wind. Although it seemed to be keeping an eye on me, it went about its business of food gathering, appearing to pick tiny insects from the fuzzy, dark brown seedheads of the cattails.

Walking slowly along the edge of the wetland, I looked for another sora but had no luck. I stopped at one location and scanned the area through binoculars for several seconds. Suddenly, an alarmed squawk issued from a spot less than 12 feet in front of me. Turning, I was just in time to see an American bittern lift off from the ground, legs dangling awkwardly as it flew deeper into the marsh. It had been right in front of me, employing its “I am a blade of grass” ruse – and I had completely fallen for it. If the bird hadn’t lost its nerve and taken flight, I might not have noticed it standing there frozen, with its neck stretched out and bill pointed straight at the sky.

Soon after, a small flock of ducks flew low over the marsh. I’m terrible at identifying ducks in flight; it’s possible they were either juvenile or nonbreeding adult mallards, but I wasn’t sure. The setting sun turned their buffy brown underbodies to a rich cinnamon color, and their underwings flashed palely as they circled undecidedly, making several false starts at landing before splashing down out of sight.

The ducks were bedding down for the night, and I took the hint; it was time I headed home to do the same. The rising moon, almost full and appearing huge and saffron-hued, kept me company as squadrons of dragonflies zipped around me – catching mosquitoes, I hoped.

Altogether it had been an absolutely gorgeous evening.

NEWS bird columnist Chris Corio can be reached at bdnsports@bangordailynews.net