Saturday April 14, 2018
The first daffodils point their ear-trumpets toward the forest: a tom turkey’s florid declarations, a blue-headed vireo’s quiet song.
Friday April 13, 2018
It’s warm. A blue jay cycles through its repertoire of complaints. The first paper wasp of spring lands on my shoulder with a gentle tap.
Thursday April 12, 2018
A brown creeper scuttles up an oak. A raven flies low over the house—its heavy wingbeats. The first brown thrasher appears in the lilac.
Wednesday April 11, 2018
The creek has shrunk to a slow procession of vowels, monotonous as any interior monologue. From above the clouds, the rumble of a jet.
Tuesday April 10, 2018
In the strong sun, tiny icicles grow at the edge of the porch roof only to fall again, like baby teeth fed on the milk of last night’s snow.
Monday April 09, 2018
This spring is—let’s be honest—not spring-loaded. Eurasian shrubs haven’t begun to green up. Even the red maple buds have yet to swell.
Sunday April 08, 2018
Weak sunlight and the creek’s quiet gurgle. I think of the dead deer up in the field, her throat torn open by coyotes, feeding their songs.