The little creek was narrow but deep, swift and rowdy. It plunged down the mountain frothing and splashing as it crashed into boulders and fallen logs and cascaded over a wall of moss covered rocks. Along its banks sword fern, kinnikinic, salal, and huckleberry grew, nurtured by the fine mist. A wide pool formed under the falls, narrowed, then raced through the gap. The stream continued its madcap journey twisting, turning, and roaring until it disappeared into the brush and trees.

In the middle of the pool, on a water-swept rock, a pudgy black bird, flicking its stubby tail, dipped and bobbed as if curtsying to the elements. It emitted a joyous peep with each curtsy in perfect harmony with the music of the waterfall, the roar of the stream, and the wind sighing through the trees.

The little bird rejoiced in her surroundings. Weeks before she had hustled back and forth with her mate carrying bits of moss, fir needles, and twigs. They had weaved and knitted their bounty into the thick moss growing on the face of the rock wall and fashioned an ingenious almost invisible nest. The living nest, sustained by the constant mist from the waterfall, combined with the moss and created a thick, soft and warm home safe from predators.

With her head held high, the little black bird surveyed her handiwork, winked an eye, tilted her beak to the sky, and let out a beautiful inspired trill. Without warning she dived head first into the shallow pool. Underwater she stretched her wings out as if she were soaring. To the casual observer, she appeared to be flying, but in reality she was walking along the bottom of the swift stream using her strong claws to grip and her short, powerful wings as paddles.

She turned over small rocks pecking and scratching like a barnyard chicken. She shot out of the water in a burst of droplets and flew to the mossy rock wall where she clung for a moment holding a fat periwinkle in her beak. A pair of baby birds, their mouths gaping, appeared. The little mother bird offered the periwinkle to her young, then twittering like a wren, flew to another rock and lit inches above the raging current where she began dipping and peeping and flicking her pert little stub of a tail as if dancing to the rhythm of the stream.

The strange little Water Ouzel cocked her head, swelled her breast, and like a serenading minstrel, burst into a sweet song with all the trills and flourishes and notes of an accomplished flutist.

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