Monday September 21, 2015

The wind is out of the east, and, slight as it is, carries an acrid, chemical smell from the sewage plant and the quarry’s dull roar.

On this date

Dawn. A bat zig-zags high over the meadow en route to its roost as the few clouds turn pink. …

Cloudy and cool. Cricket trills and ticks are joined by chipmunk tocks. A tulip tree leaf sails in wide circles with its stem for a rudder. …

Even hanging upside-down from a Canada thistle and stuffing her beak with thistledown, the goldfinch never stops chittering. …

Clear and cold. In their communal tent, the caterpillars lie still as mummies in a tomb—gray forms already in their burial wrappings. …

Dozens of dragonflies silhouetted against the sky appear and disappear in the dawn fog. The trees still drip from a storm in the wee hours. …

A mosquito creeps across my shirt, an inchworm measures my jeans, and a hummingbird circles my head: this morning, I'm doomed to disappoint. …

The woods' edge is at the base of a hill; all I see of the doe foraging under the trees are delicate legs and the spinning flag of her tail. …

The Morning Porch