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.
Dave Bonta
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.
Clear sky, but the sun in the treetops is a little wan, as if filtered through a dirty window. Traffic sounds carry from over the ridge.