Despite appearances to the contrary—the sky still gray, rain still withheld—spring has come for the titmouse and his one, querulous note.
Dave Bonta
April 7, 2008
Gray sky; the smell of rain. Two insomniac screech owls exchange trills. Then the low-frequency thumps of a grouse. An enormous silence.
April 6, 2008
Behind all the birdsong, I gradually become aware of a metronome I haven’t heard since last fall: a chipmunk clucking up in the woods.
April 5, 2008
Mid-morning: overcast, 36°F, but the wood frogs are making a ruckus in their eyedropper of a pond. Yellow buds swell on the French lilac.
April 4, 2008
Somewhere in the fog, a red-winged blackbird, a pair of mourning doves, a robin, a flock of finches. Half an hour later, nothing but rain.
April 3, 2008
The feral cat is back from wherever it goes for the winter. It crouches on a fallen limb, eyes fixed on the weeds, gathered for the spring.
April 2, 2008
Back below freezing, and the morning chorus is much more subdued as a result. That missing element of excitement? Flying insects.
April 1, 2008
At mid-morning, the trill of a screech owl. The sun struggles to shine; blurry shadows appear. A crow flies over quacking like a mallard.
March 31, 2008
Dad reports that when he went outside around 8:00, a gray fox was sitting in the driveway. They watched each other for more than a minute.
March 30, 2008
The sky—so much more nuanced and interesting than yesterday’s clear blue! The light—so much blander! A zero-sum game between earth and sky.
March 29, 2008
Cold but clear. Two crows are arguing: the one caws, the other makes that strange scraping rattle, like a sound effect from a horror film.
March 28, 2008
Thick fog blanks everything but the noise from the highway—this could be New Jersey. Rain beads on the branches of the ornamental cherry.
March 27, 2008
The snow is gone (again) and the first phoebe circles the barn and shed, expressing his satisfaction with the location, location, location.
March 26, 2008
Rain overnight has reduced our Good Friday snow to a lacy patchwork in the woods, so much cleaner and paler than the old snows of winter.