Rising after the sun, I watch it illuminate section by section the complex structure of a funnel spider web.
July 2023
7/30/2023
Clear and cool. A migrant wood thrush calls softly at first light. It’s very still. Then the wrens wake up.
7/29/2023
White sky with distant crows. The stiltgrass in the meadow is still lying low after a thunderstorm yesterday at dusk.
7/28/2023
Another cool, humid morning. The hearty laughter of a pileated woodpecker interrupts my scrolling.
7/27/2023
A wood thrush is singing in the distance. I shoo away the mosquito singing in my ear to listen.
7/26/2023
Rising late, I find the sun already spread out on the leaves like piecemeal linen, shining white, and the forest floor striped with shadows.
7/25/2023
Sunrise thunderstorm: the sky darkening just when you least expect it, then the downpour and all the leaves of grass nodding like headbangers as the thunder booms.
7/24/2023
Cool and clear, but still with some high-altitude murk. I miss the deep blue of my boyhood summers, the bright sun and dark shadows under the trees.
7/23/2023
The second cool morning in a row, but quieter and not quite as clear. A deer looks up at me more with annoyance than alarm and goes back to grazing.
7/22/2023
Cool and clear. A female hummingbird keeps hovering in front of my face and chirping, intermittently joined by two others. I am not wearing any bright colors. I’m left wondering what message I’ve failed to understand.
7/21/2023
Fog at first light. The random percussion of rain dripping off the trees slowly joined by bird calls: pewee, towhee, song sparrow, wren…
7/20/2023
Nuthatch scolding a gray squirrel, who scratches himself with a hind leg. The rising sun takes its place among the goldfinches.
7/19/2023
A ten-minute shower unmentioned in the forecast. The sky brightens. A tiny white moth circles the yard.
7/18/2023
Dawn fog loud with noise from the interstate, thanks to an inversion layer: it’s chilly for July. I don a flannel shirt and soon find myself daydreaming about autumn.