The third autumnal morning in a row, with clouds introducing a more melancholy note: nesting time is over, the sky road calls…
Month: August 2022
45F/7C at sunrise. I carry a chair up into the woods, watch sunlight seep down the oaks with color commentary by a red-eyed vireo.
Clear, cold, and quiet except for the wren. A breeze through the treetops: trembling leaves anointed by the sun.
Clear and cool as an October morning. Treetop oak leaves turn orange in the sunrise. All the crows wake up.
Milk-white sky and the white noise of tree crickets. A pileated woodpecker cackles to herself at the top of a tall locust.
Clear but with atmospheric haze, so the sunlight leaking down the trees looks murky behind the goldfinches’ purer yellow.
Light fog in the treetops. A hummingbird checks the hook where we hung a feeder two years ago, hovers in front of my face, goes back to the hook and looks at me.
The first yellow leaves on the walnuts: it’s late summer already. The fog hides trees and reveals old spiderwebs like messages in invisible ink.
Rain and fog. A wood thrush sings three times and falls silent. A mourning dove goes on and on.
Cool beginning to another scorcher. A fly goes for a walk down a porch column. The thud of a walnut on the road.
Cool and crystal clear. The buzz of battling hummingbirds below the porch where jewelweed has eluded the deer.
Cloudy and cool. A male hummingbird pauses over the faded bergamot patch, then buzzes off.
Overcast at sunrise. A meadowhawk dragonfly zips back and forth, inches above the rain-soaked vegetation.