Overcast with fog that thins out for the purported sunrise. It’s warm enough that one tree cricket trills in the herb garden.
High, slow-moving reefs of cloud at sunrise. The white-throated sparrows in the meadow conclude their chittering and go their separate ways.
Dawn. Low over the trees, the last sliver of moon like fangs of a snake trying to swallow a dark, glowing egg.
Clear and still. I watch the sun inch through the half-turned canopies of the oaks. A chipmunk begins his morning chant.
Two degrees below freezing and clear at sunrise. A falling tulip tree leaf lands with an audible tick.
Dawn brings a chittering of sparrows from the meadow. It’s cold. Frost edges the periwinkle leaves.
In the half-light of dawn, wet snow falls through the dimly glowing autumn leaves. A white-throated sparrow’s plaintive note.
A cold and windy dawn. The crescent moon drowns in a sorcery of pink.
Colors so much warmer than the air. Halfway through the morning, the sky clears. Sun in the treetops. A phoebe calls.
A hair above freezing. A pair of jays fresh from their ablutions ascend a flaming birch, gleaning insects on their way to the oaks.
Rain tapering off by mid morning. The sun even emerges for one or two seconds, setting off a crow.
Slightly warmer. Alarmed chipmunks go in and out of sync. The slow hegemony of clouds.
Sun in the treetops and a small flock of migrants just below, catching some breakfast. A chipmunk’s motor slowly runs out of putts.
Sunrise has been delayed by clouds, but I hold out hope. A wren tuts impatiently. A train horn blows a flat minor chord.