Clear sky, 55°F. A cicada and a wood pewee singing at the same time: Sunlight! Shadows! Up in the other house, the phones begin to ring.
Plummer’s Hollow
Fast-moving showers; the light changes from minute to minute. A distant rumble turns out to be an A-10 Thunderbolt II—our modems are safe.
This time of year, every wood thrush song I hear could be the last. I listen hard. Inside on the table, the covers of paperbacks curl up.
Cool and misty—everything drips. A bumblebee clings to the underside of a bergamot bract; on the topside, an equally motionless ant.
A rare visit from an Acadian flycatcher, straying up from the deep hollow. It hovers above a cherry branch, skimming insects off wet leaves.
A bat lands on the inside end of the porch—right above the moon from where I sit—and crawls rapidly on its elbows toward the nearest crack.
Glancing up from a book about Papua New Guinea, I see a doe and fawn crossing the yard and passing pale as spirits between the dark trees.
Two days ago, I spotted the first red branch of black gum. This morning, in the tops of locust saplings: that transcendent springtime green.
A hummingbird does a quick circuit of the bergamot, then zips across the road to check out the limp orange tubes from yesterday’s daylilies.
Unseen: a crash in the treetops, followed by a ripple of high-pitched squirrel alarm that travels hundreds of yards in a couple of seconds.
On the far side of the driveway, the heads of the garlic multitude have uncurled, and they stand with their long bills pointing at the sky.
A Carolina wren stops by and pours out fifteen seconds of pure exuberance—just enough to remind me how much I’ve been missing. (Stay! Nest!)
A squirrel descending the closest corner of the house spots me watching and freezes, then proceeds jerkily like a film going frame by frame.
Hazy but cool. A cranefly bumbles over the cherry tree on its too-long legs, its too-small wings, like a marionette with invisible strings.