The Red Wolves are hiding today. There is a special event on St. Vincent, a barrier island, and home to the Red Wolf Recovery Project. Although the 1200-acre island is a two-hour drive west, it is a part of St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge. After a checkered history during its private ownership, at which time hapless animals (some exotic) were ferried over to the island where they were dispatched in the name of sport at the established hunting camp, it now has regained much of its primitive habitat.

St. Vincent is accessible by boat only, and annually, volunteers host visitors and offer informative programs with tram rides through the flatwoods and hikes on the beach. Two or three hundred people come to learn, and have access to a small portion of the island.

I walk with a small group along the beach, where we snatch Native American pottery shards from the clutches of the bay. For a minute or two, we reverently cherish the 1500 year-old artifacts in our hands before replacing them gently at the water's edge. I reflect on whose steps came before mine, how they lived, what traces we will leave behind for others to discover some long, long stretch of time beyond the now. For a moment, I am sad: I regret that our legacy will not be as simple and pure as a few shards of pottery.

Down the beach, many tangled, weathered tree roots claw their way along the shoreline, exposed, no longer the support for the stalwart trunks above them. We discuss the erosion - in a way, maybe it's really not erosion. It's just change: large sections of the shoreline are slipping away, giving birth to a new island formation nearby. Later, as I sit alone on the beach as close to the incoming tide as I dare, a Laughing Gull totters purposefully my way to see if I have grapes to share, or maybe a crust of bread. I am still. It comes even closer. I enjoy this sweet moment in time, when this wild creature appears comfortable with my presence.

I think back to the past year, when the 19th century lighthouse at St. Marks required some excavation at its base. The surrounding sand yielded some treasures that were 8000 thousand years old. I watch the gull, sift the sand through my fingers, roll a shell or two in my hand, and think of the eons of tide and wind and moon and sun, hurricane and cold and salt and water, in myriad forms and with varying force, which have acted together to make the beach where the gull and I continue to commune. I reflect on the mountains and valleys at home, and the enormous weight and pressure that popped up the Earth and made the beauty that surrounds us in Northfield.

Just below the dunes and away from the water's reach, I work with other volunteers to rope off and post 'sensitive nesting area' signs. At this time of year it's not just the wolves that need our support: some of the endangered shorebirds, inadvertently on a collision course with humans, scrape away a layer of sand and camouflage their eggs so expertly that they blend perfectly with the grains on which they lie, exposed and vulnerable to footsteps of casual beachcombers. The visitors who come to St. Vincent today learn about conservation, preservation and protection of essential habitat, and each person is one more believer, one more evangelist, informed and prepared to carry forth the word.

So much of this moment feels right: the sound of the gentle waves tickling the shoreline on this windy day, the sun, the birds, the springtails, the sand and shells - the pottery wearing away with time and water - islands forming and reforming - wolf pups going to a new wild home - the Whooping Cranes about to leave on their first wild migration, free from human intervention - the Earth in its springtime flood of courtship and rebirth.

All things alive have walked hand-in-hand on this ancient planet through eons. You and I are here for a minute or less, by comparison. The continued survival of this great design depends on every person understanding the consequences of each footprint we leave. We must learn to walk a lot more gently. Although we will surely leave more than shards, let our legacy reflect increasing discipline in our choices and our actions.

Christine Barnes is a resident of Northfield and a volunteer at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge.