A still morning. Dew drips from the top roof onto the porch roof. Each birdcall—woodpecker, towhee, jay—is surrounded by acres of silence.
August 14, 2008
Sunrise comes with a soundtrack of grinding and beeping from the quarry to our east. Right below the railing, goldenrod bobs: a winter wren.
August 13, 2008
The lowest limb of the tulip poplar trembles as a four-point buck briefly fences with the leaves. The minor-key wail of a distant train.
August 12, 2008
The woods’ edge is at the base of a hill; all I see of the doe foraging under the trees are delicate legs and the spinning flag of her tail.
August 11, 2008
A hummingbird checks me out before visiting the bergamot, and again afterwards. Then she zips down to the stream for the briefest of drinks.
August 10, 2008
Up at 4:45 to watch the meteor shower, I carry a folding chair out onto the driveway and look up: nothing. Clouds. A raindrop hits my face.
August 9, 2008
50°F. A daddylonglegs descends a goldenrod stem, slow as the minute hand on a clock. A catbird bursts from the lilac, crackling with alarm.
August 8, 2008
At sunrise, a pair of screech owls trill back and forth, one high, one low, as orange-and-purple clouds race overhead.
Cool and overcast. In the garden… August 7, 2008
Cool and overcast. In the garden, a white trumpet above the bindweed’s heart-shaped leaves. A millipede explores the toe of my running shoe.
August 6, 2008
The crown of a black walnut tree at the edge of the woods is already spotted with yellow. When a wind comes up, it scatters left-over rain.
August 5, 2008
6:30 a.m. and the woods are virtually devoid of birdsong. It takes me half an hour to notice the crickets in the grass, that steady ringing.
August 4, 2008
Clear sky, but the sun in the treetops is a little wan, as if filtered through a dirty window. Traffic sounds carry from over the ridge.
August 3, 2008
My brother’s new car sits in the weeds, sleek and white, like an emissary from another world come to repatriate the plastic stack chairs.
August 2, 2008
At the end of one refrain, a mourning dove pauses and adds an extra syllable, as if correcting itself. The cheery yellow of St. John’s wort.