A high-pitched, terrified bleat. Half a minute later, the alarm snorts of an adult deer. Sun in the treetops. The snorting goes on and on.
Plummer’s Hollow
A phoebe darts and hovers, gleaning insects off the wet weeds. Yesterday, I watched a phoebe help feed four catbird fledglings in the lilac.
In the side garden, the first bergamot is in bloom, purple dreadlocks shooting from a dusty inflorescence and a necklace of purpled green.
The little wood satyr I first spotted yesterday flutters up from the side garden, yellow-rimmed eyespots like dim headlights in the fog.
Overcast and humid. It seems unusually quiet, and after ten minutes I realize why: no cicadas! See you in 2025, oh weird ones. Insha’Allah.
The yellowthroat’s witchedywitchedywitchedy woke me at dawn. Now he sits silent on a curved claw of dead elm, insouciant in his black mask.
The brome and orchard grass in my former lawn has been flattened by heavy rain in the wee hours. Now I have a much better view of the weeds.
I feel a ground beetle walking up my leg, under my jeans. How do I know it isn’t an ant or a cockroach? The feet make a solid connection.
A juvenile robin grooming in the cherry tree, light feathers dotting its dark back—scruffy as a teenage boy’s first beard. The sun comes up.
First light. A low-frequency buzz passes between the back of my head and the house. Wood thrush song in the distance—an incoming tide.
The dawn chorus begins just as it does in January: with cardinal song. High above the atmosphere, a satellite catches the first rays of sun.
I realize suddenly that my yard is devoid of bull thistles this year. Could the goldfinches really have consumed every one of the seeds?
Another butterfly weed has been stripped. It’s supposed to taste awful, but maybe it’s psychotropic. Anything that orange must be dangerous.
The catbird sounds self-critical, adding a brief aside after every phrase. The chipping sparrow’s never-ending alarm sets a cricket off.