Sun from under a lid of cloud illuminates the western ridge. A hooded warbler just inside the woods’ edge moves into the yard as the sky clears, keeping up his insistent chant for more than an hour.
Cool and mostly overcast. A phoebe hawks insects low to the ground. An hour later, I’m pleased to find I can now i.d. a yellow-throated vireo’s call—so much hoarser and more rushed than its red-eyed or blue-headed cousins.
Heavily overcast and cold. A half hour past sunrise, only a field sparrow, a red-eyed vireo and an ovenbird still sing. A few goldfinches chitter in the treetops.
A gloomy morning punctuated by brief showers. I look up at one point to spot a male hummingbird rocketing back and forth above the creek, performing for a female perched in a black elderberry bush that has just leafed out.
Cold, but no frost. A hummingbird just after sunrise buzzes up to a dame’s-rocket blossom, turns and flies off. The sun gathers strength in the treetops.
Cool and nearly clear, with cirrus coming in after sunrise, and the sun like an old soldier fading away as a truck rounds the bend of the road, hauling a new roof for the barn.
Out early for the moon and whippoorwill, and soon enough the only blue sky we’re likely to see all day. Everything drips. Half-open aspen leaves hang like gray dishrags from the sapling in the yard.
Steady rain since before daybreak: the dawn chorus gains a rhythmless drumbeat. A red squirrel tries to run past my feet and loses its nerve in a panicked scrabbling of claws.
Another cold, clear morning. I hear the low voices of birders mingling with the ovenbirds and field sparrows. The long-delayed leaf-out of frost-struck oaks lets the lusher understory shine, green-gold.
Crystal-clear and quiet as the sun goes from gold to yellow and leaves its nest of leaves. The waxy chatter of goldfinches gives way to the wheeze of a black-and-white warbler.
A pause between showers fills with birdsong—the red-eyed vireo AKA preacher bird is back. Then a brown thrasher joins the chat.
Sunny and breezy, but still damp from a shower at dawn. A carpenter ant wanders across the arm of my wooden chair, tapping with her antennae as if taking its measure.
Overcast and cool. I look up from my book to see a hummingbird flying aggressively back and forth a foot away from a gnatcatcher perched in the lilac, who seems unimpressed.
Leaves droop on the elderberry and currant bushes beside the creek—another light frost. April was the cruelest month for trees and shrubs, but May so far hasn’t been much better. On the other hand, a Carolina wren is calling in the yard for the first time in ages.