Hazy but not yet hot. Hummingbirds circle the soapwort patch, as if following the red threads of bindweed.
Year: 2022
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.
Heavily overcast; on the weather app, it’s raining. The sky lightens; on the weather app, bright sunshine. From Mom’s house, the measured tones of Morning Edition.
A day of high contrast between sun and shade. A wood pewee lands on the dead mullein stalk in my yard and sways back and forth.
Partly cloudy and cool. A large garter snake emerges from the stone wall and curls up on a sunny corner of the porch.
Cool and clear. An asterisk of thistledown floats by—high time for the goldfinches to be nesting, I think. But they’re still gadding about in the treetops.
An hour after sunrise, wild garlic heads still nod. A flower fly hovers in front of my glasses’ right lens. The smell of smoke.
Sunlight dulled by high haze. A squirrel in the garden grooms its genitals, then pulls a soapwort blossom close for an almost-kiss.
Crystal-clear and cool—a perfect morning to sit and write. When I look up an hour later, a new spiderweb glistens in the eaves.