Foggy and cool. I sit enjoying the deep stillness, gazing at the wreckage from last night’s storm—two black birches smashed down by the top half of a black locust—and anticipating the chainsaw’s roar.
Cooler and less humid after last night’s storms. The sun finds my face through an opening in the canopy of an oak, and I’m repeatedly dive-bombed by a butterfly—Polygonia interrogationis, I think. A question mark.
In the morning coolness, a groundhog lies on its belly on a flat rock beside the porch, where the soapwort is in bloom. Up in the woods, the thrush sings a few bars and falls silent.
Out early to catch the coolness, such as it is. Sunlight filtered by atmospheric murk. A breeze riffling the walnut leaves. Ovenbirds, towhees and red-eyed vireos once again making their small claims.
Warm and humid with an occasional breeze. Mosquitoes are out in force, both large and small species, flying with disconcerting speed. I clap and clap.
Humid and cool. The ruby throat of a hummingbird shimmers in front of a hanging bandanna’s much blander red. From the other side of the house, the rising buzz of a cerulean warbler.
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.