Gray sky, gray titmouse descending the gray ladder of dead elm branches, pausing to swipe its bill against each as if sharpening a blade.
The rabbit at the edge of the driveway seems unconcerned about my presence until a house wren starts up an alarmist propaganda campaign.
Bluer than blue sky, a perfect morning, and all I hear is a robin tut-tutting and a Carolina wren going Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.
The lone survivor of the yellow jacket holocaust under the porch floor two nights ago slowly circles my legs. My foot freezes in mid-tap.
The doe with twins pauses to graze a multiflora rose. The lead fawn follows suit, and I want to cheer. Invasive-eating culture transmitted!
High, deliberate notes of a blue-headed vireo: April revisited. A slow floodwater mosquito dies between the heels of my palms.
Pursued by its parent onto a dead branch, a vireo fledgling: smaller and paler, like a ghost who must be fed. The wide-eyed fleabane below.
A wood thrush sings at dawn; the trees glow faintly pink. What is it about the 3rd-quarter moon that makes it look especially edible?
Thin fog in the corner of the field. A Cooper’s hawk fledgling responds to its parent, a hot cry, a knife cry, a glossy cry, a soul cry.
Garlic tops still point at the ground like dysfunctional minarets. Goldfinches weave through the canopy, circling the thistle-spined sun.
Another cool morning, but the haze portends heat. The wind carries a sweetness I can’t identify. Slow and careful footsteps up in the woods.
A catbird dive-bombs a small buck with stubby velvet antlers. He runs toward a doe who chases him back, her fawn dancing along behind.
On the steep slope below my parents’ house, a doe sweeps the deerflies from her twin fawns’ spotted backs with her long, rough tongue.
Chipping sparrows feed a fledgling in the grass next to the wall, making much too much noise—even a deer would nosh on such a fine morsel.