Up late after being woken by a storm in the night. At mid-morning, the sun breaking through thin clouds, everything drips and glistens. A low thrum of crickets. The catbird scolds from the depths of a spicebush.
August 11,
Sunrise reddens the western ridge as the flat-tire moon fades, alone in the sky. Jewelweed flowers along the stream nod and sway as the first hummingbird makes her rounds.
Cold and still at sunrise. A hummingbird zooms past, pausing over a snakeroot that is almost in bloom.
Before the first birds, a thin, gaping moon. A last katydid stopping mid-creak. The whine of tires on the highway over the ridge.
Clear and cool as an October morning. Treetop oak leaves turn orange in the sunrise. All the crows wake up.
It’s still cool, but the air smells like heat. I watch a sulphur butterfly’s erratic flight path. Does even it know its next move?
The wind from a distant storm sends yellowed walnut leaves spinning to the ground. In the meadow, the first goldenrod blossoms are opening.
Another quiet morning as the songbirds go through their annual molt. Cicada. Yellow-billed cuckoo. Last night’s rain glistens on the grass.
Crystal-clear at sunrise: I’m aware of every smudge and scratch on my glasses. A wood pewee’s call reduced to a single, interrogatory note.
Scattered bird calls—cardinal, vireo, field sparrow—all sound perfunctory except for the goldfinches, who are in thistle heaven at last.
A yellow mayfly struggles to cross the desert of my porch floor. I glance over at the streambank: yellow coneflowers, the first goldenrod.
A hummingbird checks me out before visiting the bergamot, and again afterwards. Then she zips down to the stream for the briefest of drinks.