Lightly overcast and cool. A molting warbler skulks in the old lilac, foraging for breakfast on the undersides of leaves.
Cool and crystal-clear. A wood thrush sings as if it’s still nesting season. The western ridge turns red.
Bleary sun. Tree leaves are all astir, but not by much. Those birds who still sing make it sound perfunctory.
Cool, overcast, and humid. A breeze brings the smell of ozone and a hush of rain finishing its journey down from the trees.
Sun rising into clouds. The mob of wild garlic heads in the meadow are beginning to shed their white hoods.
It’s actually cold—54F/12C! A crow at the top of the tallest locust where the sun strikes has one thing to say and she is saying it.
The sky never gets fully light before thunder starts to rumble. Now it’s getting dark again. The birds fall silent.
Hazy but not yet hot. Hummingbirds circle the soapwort patch, as if following the red threads of bindweed.
Every time I look up from my book, more sunlight has infiltrated the forest like bright rungs of a ladder. A raven clears its throat.
Chimney swifts circle high overhead as the last bats head home. The sun rising through small clouds is crowned by dark spokes.
A few minutes before sunrise. Goldfinch chatter. A half-slice of moon hangs in the east like an icon of wintry cool.
Cool at sunrise with a restless breeze. The big tulip tree at the woods’ edge drops a few more drought-yellowed leaves.
Fifteen hours of off-and-on rain and everything looks greener. The big red maple that just finished dying sheds a chunk of rotten wood.
Another phantom shower, existing only on the weather app. A firefly wanders past, looking for a walnut leaf to spend the day under.