Hard to pin-point the emotions evoked by familiar bird calls, beyond just “blue jay feeling,” “nuthatch feeling,” “goldfinch feeling.”
I notice a new patch of touch-me-nots in the tall weeds, beaded with rain, their nectar-filled tails curled primly in wait for hummingbirds.
Cool and almost clear. A few clouds come scudding from the same direction as the highway noise, as if themselves powered by small engines.
The stiltgrass that has taken over the garden bends low with dew, and I remember: these are the “autumn grasses” beloved of Basho and Buson.
I cede the porch to the hornets and sit under the portico. The view: a garden full of weeds, a least flycatcher landing briefly on an aster.
The porch in my absence has become a home to hornets. They’re up at dawn, dozens inspecting the surface of their great paper death star.