Dawn thunderstorm moving off by sunrise, which a single crow heralds from the dead top of a locust. The first hummingbird arrives at the jewelweed before the rain has quite stopped. Another storm rumbles in the west.
Overcast and cool. The mid-morning quiet is broken by a fight between titmice, the two protagonists going at each other all around the yard, followed by a noisy chorus of other titmice and chickadees.
A yellow walnut leaf spins as it falls, just ahead of the rain—another passing shower. Blades of grass tremble as they’re struck. The Carolina wren keeps singing up by the garage.
A mourning dove calls from out of the fog, high-pitched and hesitant, as if just learning how to sing. A flower fly is licking my laptop where I rest my wrist.
Thin fog forms as the rising sun begins warming the humid air and rain-soaked vegetation. I look for the half moon, still high overhead, in a large patch of blue.
Cloudy and humid, with a steady stream of goldfinch and Carolina wren chatter. The sun appears through a hole in the clouds and multiple holes in the forest canopy to strike my face, summoning the demon of a sneeze.
Cold and clear, with dew dripping from the sun-struck roof. The dying lilac is re-greening with bindweed: ladders of heart-shaped leaves. In the woods, between sunbeams, a pewee’s bent note.
Breezy, cool, and very damp. A fledgling chipping sparrow at the woods’ edge chirps nearly non-stop, pausing only when the sun comes out for a few seconds.
A shower tapering off into birdsong. The tulip tree sapling in my yard dances in a light breeze, beads of rain sliding across its leaves but holding on. The sky darkens for another shower.
Cool and still, with a white sky and feeble sun. The jewelweed in the dripline of the porch has grown tall enough that I can see as well as hear the occasional hummingbird visitor, sipping nectar from bright orange goblets. At the other end of the yard, all the lilac leaves are turning brown.
Clear, cool, and breezy—a week to the day after our last dry high. Six crows sit on dead branches atop the two tallest locust trees in the yard. One minute past sunrise, they look all around, shift on their perches, and take flight.
An hour after sunrise the sky darkens again. At the first close rumble of thunder, a fawn leaps up out of the meadow and dashes into the woods.
Cool and humid at dawn. I open my laptop to draw the mosquitoes away from my head with a glowing screen. The cardinal begins to sing.
Sunny and cool. I happen to spot a moment of tenderness between hummingbirds: he buzzing back and forth a few inches from her perch in the eastern red cedar, she tilting her head back for a lightning-fast meeting of tongues.