A new squeal from the locust trees. The wind is an eraser that works badly, and tears a hole in the woods if pressed too hard.

Over the clang of church bells, the ethereal cries of wild swans: a huge high V off to the north. Sorry, folks. G-d has left the building.

Cold and clear. Looking west, I spot a bright white dot on the far side of the field: the breast of a red-tailed hawk shining in the sun.