Plummer’s Hollow

5:30. The black cat is only distinguishable by its movement up the driveway, and only if I focus a little to the side. The sound of engines.

Clear, cold. The flare of a satellite is an omen: the sun will rise. CERN has so far failed to birth a black hole. Random chirps.

Thunderstorms since before dawn. Light comes in sudden, brief installments that freeze the raindrops falling from the roof—eyes in the dark.

In the chill of dawn, sounds come as if from a great distance: wood thrush chirping, crow calls, wren twitter, the Monday whine of traffic.

Still, clear, 50°F. The sunlight spreading into the treetops is noisy with bluejays calling “Hey! Hey!”—or more likely, “Acorns! Acorns!”

The rending of a limb or small tree down in the hollow, followed by… nothing. A phoebe sings a few bars of his old song and falls silent.

In from the porch, I open a window to hear the crickets. Golden light spreads across the field. A series of heavy thumps under the floor.

Out of the darkness and fog before dawn, a sudden yelp. Only when it moves farther off am I able to place it: a raccoon. The newest tenant.