Overcast, with the smell of ozone, damp soil and lilacs. A perfect day for the great-crested flycatcher to return, I think, and there he is.
2019
May 3, 2019
It’s humid. A bluebird sings up by the garage, and in the woods, a black-throated green warbler. The first tiger swallowtail flutters past.
May 2, 2019
Under heavy clouds, the big crabapple tree’s first blossoms are beginning to open. A honeybee makes a close inspection of my shirt.
May 1, 2019
Mist. A fragment of blue in the top of an oak that could be a cerulean warbler. From the far ridge, the faint sound of a wood thrush.
April 30, 2019
Gray and cool. The first hummingbird zooms past. A pileated woodpecker flies in to hammer the old butternut stump, keeping a wary eye on me.
April 29, 2019
A half-warm morning, with the sun half out. I notice that birds have made so many holes in the old hornets’ nest, it’s now Janus-faced.
April 28, 2019
The catbird is back, improvising lines of its spring-long solo in a cold drizzle. The edge of the woods is an impressionist’s soft blur.
April 27, 2019
Bright and cold. The wind sounds different from the last time it blew this hard, more hush and rustle—tiny new leaves’ ambitious whispers.
April 26, 2019
Steady rain. In the yard, right where the biggest snowdrift had sat, a small clump of pale-yellow mushrooms has appeared.
April 25, 2019
Heavy clouds, but only a few drops fall. A mourning dove and a red-bellied woodpecker go over and over their opposing points of view.
April 24, 2019
The fluttery way a Cooper’s hawk flies, skimming the treetops. Later, a jet goes the same way, its contrail just the briefest I and I.
April 23, 2019
The first cabbage whites of spring! said no one ever. But their mad pas de deux is as full of zest as the tiger beetle gleaming green below.
April 22, 2019
The tall tulip tree has burst its buds—shining green nubbins against the deep blue. Two crows chase a raven, diving, jeering themselves on.
April 21, 2019
In the woods, soft green clouds of newly opened leaves here and there. In the garden, the first bleeding-hearts—hunched, almost apologetic.