Another gorgeous morning spoiled by the smell of cow shit. I think of the pastoral idyll, land-grant universities turned bloated and foul.
Dave Bonta
A red-spotted purple butterfly is in my seat, slow-dancing with its attenuated shadow. The ageless wheezing of a black-and-white warbler.
A pale cranefly illuminated by the early-morning sun looks almost angelic, until it lands and begins groping its way with its antennae.
Two cabbage white butterflies chase, briefly syncing their herky-jerky flights. The yard looks dusty, but it’s only the flour on my glasses.
I fail to spot him on the branch or on the wing, this noisy vireo with an insomniac’s eye—a genius at self-effacement and at holding forth.
A fawn among the wild garlic: the white tops continue in the spots of its coat. Later, a hummingbird at the beebalm: matching red throats.
In the cool of the morning, I cup my hands to my ears and listen to wind in the grass, the hum of insects, the distant moans of a dove.
At sunrise, two bird calls I associate with early spring: blue-headed vireo and chickadee. But the breeze is warm, the sun a lurid orange.
The catbird emerges from the lilac, gray as ever, and begins to scold. The cuckoo, by contrast, sounds mechanical—almost ready for a clock.
A towhee by the springhouse sings an inverted version of his usual song. The first purple bergamot is in bloom—a court jester’s absurd hat.
In the morning coolness, I glimpse a pair of Carolina wrens perched on a lilac branch, touching bills to pass some winged morsel.
A thin bead curtain hangs from the walnut tree: tiny tussock moth caterpillars, curled tight as question marks, rappelling down to the road.
A light clatter like a touch typist passes under my chair: the resident chipmunk. A green darner zips in, skimming low over the porch floor.
From what nearby October has it come, this already-red red maple leaf plastered face-down on the red porch floor and beaded with rain?