54°F. A cranefly clings to my elbow, landing gear spread wide as its clear wings flutter in the breeze, flags for the kingdom of water.
Dave Bonta
Four titmice flit about the yard. The dead elm twigs that are closest to the lilac have acquired a greenish tinge. A beetle’s zigzag flight.
A fawn follows its mother through the springhouse meadow, spots like stars on a pelt dark with moisture from the sopping-wet vegetation.
A squirrel is exploring the dead elm at the edge of the yard, racing to the shakey end of each decrepit branch and peering into the abyss.
Overcast and cold. A firefly floats past the porch with his abdomen pointing down, lamp at the ready for any unscheduled onset of darkness.
Clear, 44°F. The doe who I think lost her fawn makes small, anxious grunts as she plows through the wet meadow in front of the springhouse.
51°F. In the side garden, my clump of New York asters has been flattened in the night, stripped stalks splayed to all points of the compass.
A catbird solos in the half-light while wood thrushes trade lines. Small white moths visit the dame’s-rocket. Today, a funeral and a picnic.
The clear air makes for sharp contrasts between shadows and patches of sunlight, sewn together by three goldfinches on a high-speed chase.
Has anyone ever exclaimed, “The dock is in bloom!”? Fuzzy green spires with a hint of orange, surrounded by bobbing candelabras of brome.
Overcast and humid. A bracken frond beside the road has turned yellow as a Yield sign. A raincrow calls over and over at the woods’ edge.
Through every opening in the wall of woods, white mounds glow in the dim light: mountain laurel at its peak of bloom, the best in years.
Sun in the treetops where a catbird improvises. From the lilac, the song of a towhee, incorporated seconds later into the catbird’s stream.
Clear, 54°F. Squirrels leap through the dripping branches, chase each other up and down trunks. A distant traffic noise of cicadas.