Overcast and humid. The aspen sapling in my yard sports three new leaves, still more pink than green. At the far end of the garden, a beebalm too is reddening on top.
Thin but steady rain. A moth flutters up under my end-table to roost. At the woods’ edge, the bindweed has gotten to the top of its dead lilac stem, and extends a long feeler toward the lowest overhanging limb that sways just out of reach.
Raininess without much actual raining. The low motor of a hummingbird somewhere in the garden. An aborted black walnut crashes down on the back roof.
Humid and cool, with last night’s rain still dripping from the trees. A lilac limb dead since last summer is greening up with bindweed. The new Carolina wren tries a dozen different variations on his teakettle theme, but so far no female has materialized.
Patches of dull sunlight brighten as the clouds thin. A distant whine of traffic is sweetened by goldfinch chatter in the treetops. Below the porch, wild garlics are beginning to raise their crane’s-bill heads.
On a gorgeous morning, it would seem incongruous to read the news about last night’s elections were it not for the incessant begging of crow fledglings up in the woods, two of them, competing to see who can sound the most pitiable.
Breezy and cool under a low cloud ceiling. A wood thrush sings sweetly just inside the woods’ edge. At the limestone quarry two miles away, something briefly gives the machine cause to roar.
Rain starts at first light. A soggy dawn chorus soon subsides, leaving only the new Carolina wren with his exotic accent and enthusiasm. As the rain thickens, he too falls silent.
Bright and cool for the solstice. A Carolina wren calls from the vicinity of the springhouse. In my front garden, yellow rays of Rudbeckia continue to unfurl.
Crystal-clear and cool. A common yellowthroat calls. Across the road, today’s orange daylilies are beginning to open.
Breezy and cool with a clearing sky. The chipmunk who lives in my front garden runs between my feet to the end of the porch, takes fright at something there, and runs back. Raspberries in the yard like bruised thumbs are slowly turning from red to black.
A mid-morning downpour. I push my chair back from the sudden curtain of roof-runoff and continue writing to the thrum of it. After half an hour it subsides into drizzle and birdsong. A male towhee flits through the yard, pursued by a pair of begging fledglings.
A storm at dawn has left everything sodden. A small pale spider dangles half-way between the eaves and the banister, slowly turning, occasionally waving her legs.
Crystal-clear and unseasonably cool, with dew dripping from the roof. Downy woodpeckers rattle back and forth. Tree trunks glow and fade as the sun climbs through the forest.