5:00 am; the stars are bright. Orion straddles the ridge, and as I watch, a meteor streaks from his belt. A small, dark moth circles my face.
August 2008
Saturday August 30, 2008
Out of the darkness and fog before dawn, a sudden yelp. Only when it moves farther off am I able to place it: a raccoon. The newest tenant.
Friday August 29, 2008
Rain and fog. Nuthatches, a wood pewee, the liquid song of a winter wren. Behind me, loud thumps from some large animal under the house.
Thursday August 28, 2008
Steady drizzle after three weeks of drought. The quiet, continuous insect trill in the grass sounds the way I feel—however that may be.
Wednesday August 27, 2008
Carolina wrens counter-singing from the springhouse, her Zzzzit! simultaneous with his TeakettleTeakettleTeakettle: the sound of the steam.
Tuesday August 26, 2008
The hollow sound of claws on loose bark: another furious squirrel chase, this time in the dead elm. The chaser pauses to lick its genitals.
Monday August 25, 2008
Rising late, I see the sun has arrived before me, burning through the haze, striping the wet woods with glistening paths, warming my seat.
Sunday August 24, 2008
A squirrel in a black walnut tree drops four nuts in a row. Clumsiness? Sabotage? Another squirrel comes running, and a noisy chase ensues.
Saturday August 23, 2008
Cool and humid. Up in the woods, two chipmunks start a border dispute, ticking in sync like bombs set to go off at the same moment.
Friday August 22, 2008
The air is still and quiet. In the springhouse meadow, the ears of a doe appear above the goldenrod, pivoting like leaves in a private wind.
Thursday August 21, 2008
For the second dawn in a row, it’s 47°F. I watch two midges hover above the railing. A long blast of the paper-plant whistle: morning shift.
Wednesday August 20, 2008
In the wild black cherry limb that hangs over the entrance to the trail up the ridge, red clumps of stems, a squirrel getting its breakfast.
Tuesday August 19, 2008
I’m beginning to distinguish individual locomotives by their whistles. The majority merely say Look Out, but a few almost manage I Am.
Sunday August 17, 2008
Sun in the treetops. A doe and her fawn are consuming the future of the forest, one oak or tulip poplar seedling at a time. The doe burps.