April 2014

Two ravens in the rain. One flies off to the south and the other lands on a dead branch. It breaks, and the bird flies off to the north.

On the myrtle flowers, nothing but native bees. The sun fades. A black-throated green warbler calls, switching between its two buzzy songs.

On a cold, clear morning, the calls of birds seem almost crystalline. To say nothing of the whistle of a westbound freight…

In a gust of wind, one dead leaf dances too crazily: a question mark butterfly. It rests with its orange wings open to the sun.

Two male flickers fighting over the dead elm and its den-hole joust in the garden, jabbing and feinting with their long bills.

A cloudless blue sky. It’s hard to tell the pale elm flowers from the sunlight shining on bare twigs and branches. A dove calls and calls.