Breezy and cool—a distinctly autumnal feel, belied by the black walnut trees’ young leaves, not yet full size, light green against the darker forest behind them. My brother the birder hurries past, eyes darting all about.

The hollow is full of fog with nothing but blue sky above it—a green bowl of birdsong and parts unknown. The sun like a bright spider stretching and retracting her legs.

Another cool morning. The chipmunk who lives under the lilac races across the road, tail like the upright stem on a quarter note. The peonies’ pale fists are opening, one by one.

Cool and nearly clear, save for a wash of high-altitude murk. The tall tulip tree at the woods’ edge is shedding petals, leaves waving like ravers in the slightest breeze.

Overcast and cool. Water gurgles into the ground and gurgles out again, and half-way between, a meadow vole surfaces from the thatch, her dark fur a study in ceaseless motion.

Having risen late on the one sunny morning of the week, I watch a tiny, pale green grasshopper wander my trouser leg, its antennae sweeping the dark denim ahead.