 In this story, there is no plot, no human drama, no breathtaking scenery. Instead, a quiet unfolding, a chance to see and hear the details of this special place. The sun stretches up above the horizon, turning the beach to gold. Grains of sand, the building blocks for this island. Each grain, a microscopic planet, wrapped in a shield of water, playing host to hundreds of living organisms. This is, after all, a story of life. Life of the most delicate and fragile kind. The story begins with the sea, with Shakespeare's rough, rude sea, gaining advantage on the kingdom of the shore. Moving and changing, rising and falling. The sea, the ocean, defines this place, adding to it, taking away. In season and in time, it brings destruction and havoc. And in time, it also brings great gifts. It brings the gift of land, the barrier island, Assateague Island, a pearl in the necklace of barrier islands, strung along our shoreline. This gift of land is random and not permanent. It is fragile, therefore, all the more special. Like the ocean, the island moves and changes. The island and all living things on it, around it. Where the ocean meets the land, the shore, there is a great and constant exchange of energy. The ocean brings life, food, nourishment to the land and its inhabitants, searching and picking. Option two contains its own life, in the waters offshore, but still connected to this place. The first line of defense against the rudeness of the sea. They also shift and change, stabilized somewhat by the beach grasses. Begin the trip west toward the mainland, and other things come into view, bayberry and beach heather. Here and among the dunes, only the heartiest, the most determined, live and prosper. In the sand, alongside the fowlers' toad and the hog-nosed snake, the oyster catcher starts a new family. Into the island, other things, other features come into view. A quiet refuge, a freshwater pond. Down the water is salty, near the surface it's fresh, and it floats on top of the heavier salt water like a lens. Here is where they come for refreshment, the deer and the red fox and the pony. And here, away from the beach, there is different vegetation, a refuge from the sun and the sand and the wind. At the leading edge, the trees are twisted and stunted from the constant assault from the sea winds. Behind them, hunkering down for protection are the others, red maple and water oak, and the occasional southern red oak, the prince of them all, the pine. Some places here, mostly to the south, the loblolly pine grows to a height of 100 feet and, some trees, 200 years old, carpet the forest floor, mixing with the thickets of greenbrier which provide protection and food for animals such as deer and rabbits. Beyond the forest, there's the marsh and teeming with life. The salt marsh is one of the richest ecosystems known to man. This is where the food chain begins. Cord grass, Spartina. The grass is attacked by bacteria. They break down the structure of the grass and produce a kind of rich protein soup, detritus. It's the main course for many creatures in the marsh. Consider the periwinkle. It moves up and down the blades of grass, scraping off the detritus, almost, but not quite, to the rhythm of the tides. And that's understandable, considering that millions of years ago, the ancestors of the periwinkle were sea creatures. They spent all their time in the water. There's abundant life in this place. It's a spawning ground, a nursery, a feeding ground. The purple marsh crab goes about his daily routine, searching for food. And there's competition, as there is in any ecosystem. The fiddler crab, seen only by those who take the time to stop and to watch, hugging the edge of the land down at water level. There are mussels. Like the oysters in the bay, they siphon the water, extracting the nutrients. Always the water. Twice a day, the tides come, flooding the marsh, and still life thrives here. Nearly 90% of the fish in the Atlantic are depended in some way on salt marshes, such as these. For them, it begins in these guts, these fingers of water that reach out into the bay, providing a route to the sea. Other members of the food chain search and feed and water. Well beyond the peak of day, well beyond the afternoon. At sunset, the creatures of the marsh begin to play out their day. If summer has passed, acetic takes on a different quality. They stop over here, feed off the bayberry, and rest among the dunes. They're joined by other birds, and by ducks and geese, and by the monarch butterfly on its long journey down to Mexico. After a few days of rest and feeding, that mysterious signal comes and is obeyed. They leave as quickly as they come. There are other signals, and they too are heated. The ghost crab burrows in on the leeward side of the dune. He knows the future. The peace and the stillness are coming to an end. Disturbed by the winds, those harbingers have changed. It's slow and gradual at first, only a faint rustling through the beach grass and the fragmites. The winds pick up, and the ocean turns angry. The big storms come. Waves pound the shoreline, striking every 12 seconds more than 7,000 times a day. They reach the dunes, and the constant and the most dramatic changes of all. Assatig, like all barrier islands, is rolling over itself, moving closer and closer to the mainland, closing up the bay beyond the salt marsh. It's a process that's been underway for centuries, a natural process. The island and all things on it adjust and accept these changes as the natural order of things. And so they are. Crystal and winter, always the wind whistling across the island and through the fragmites. Snow makes a rare appearance here, but always there's the biting, damp cold, that rough and rude sea. Life in the winter is harsh, only the strong and the knowing adapt and stay and survive. Some wildfowl choose to stay over for the winter and move on in the spring. With the snow and the ice and the wind, life becomes a little more tenuous, brittle and fragile. The winter storm ends, and an icy sunset across the bay underscores the stillness. There is no stirring now, only the long, deep sleep of winter. Long sleep is over, and ascetic comes to life. Numerous form of wildlife here, and the most visible. Constantly they're on the move, searching for food for themselves and their young. Usually if the dinner is heavier than the carrier. Standing by, just in case the burden gets too heavy, or even yesterday. In the small details one can see, it will be different tomorrow. This is the story of acity, changing and adapting. Obeying the signals we mere mortals are not privileged to hear. Though we can be here, and watch, and listen, and experience those changes, it's privileged enough.