The soft thump starts slowly and accelerates into a muted whirr before dying out. Five minutes may pass before the grouse remembers his job and starts up again. The song of birds heralds the coming of another song, that of mosquitoe. That too-familiar hum starts up right about when the first robins arrive and is concentrated enough to be irritating by the time the thrushes are in full cry. We hear larger birds too, although less often.
Eagles soar overhead frequently as long as waterfowl move in flocks.
The big birds spook the flocks with every pass, and sometimes we hear their squeaky chirping cry. Most delightful is the clear staccato call of the boreal owls for which I have a particular affection. Along the river, mud banks crash into the water as the current undercuts them. The mud falls in solid blocks because it's still frozen, so it hits the water with a thunderclap crash, like a gunshot, instead of the usual softer splat. On the lake, the thawing ice breaks and scatters, sometimes tinkling, sometimes grinding as the pans move before the shifting wind.