I’m beginning to distinguish individual locomotives by their whistles. The majority merely say Look Out, but a few almost manage I Am.
Dave Bonta
Sun in the treetops. A doe and her fawn are consuming the future of the forest, one oak or tulip poplar seedling at a time. The doe burps.
The far side of the driveway is dusted in white—snakeroot coming into bloom. The poison that killed Lincoln’s mother, distilled in milk.
A still morning. Dew drips from the top roof onto the porch roof. Each birdcall—woodpecker, towhee, jay—is surrounded by acres of silence.
Sunrise comes with a soundtrack of grinding and beeping from the quarry to our east. Right below the railing, goldenrod bobs: a winter wren.
The lowest limb of the tulip poplar trembles as a four-point buck briefly fences with the leaves. The minor-key wail of a distant train.
The woods’ edge is at the base of a hill; all I see of the doe foraging under the trees are delicate legs and the spinning flag of her tail.
A hummingbird checks me out before visiting the bergamot, and again afterwards. Then she zips down to the stream for the briefest of drinks.
Up at 4:45 to watch the meteor shower, I carry a folding chair out onto the driveway and look up: nothing. Clouds. A raindrop hits my face.
50°F. A daddylonglegs descends a goldenrod stem, slow as the minute hand on a clock. A catbird bursts from the lilac, crackling with alarm.
At sunrise, a pair of screech owls trill back and forth, one high, one low, as orange-and-purple clouds race overhead.
Cool and overcast. In the garden…
Cool and overcast. In the garden, a white trumpet above the bindweed’s heart-shaped leaves. A millipede explores the toe of my running shoe.
The crown of a black walnut tree at the edge of the woods is already spotted with yellow. When a wind comes up, it scatters left-over rain.
6:30 a.m. and the woods are virtually devoid of birdsong. It takes me half an hour to notice the crickets in the grass, that steady ringing.