The lone survivor of the yellow jacket holocaust under the porch floor two nights ago slowly circles my legs. My foot freezes in mid-tap.
Carolina wren
First one, then a second Carolina wren pops out from under the eaves, perches in the fretwork for a second, and flies off into the fog.
Carolina wrens counter-singing from the springhouse, her Zzzzit! simultaneous with his TeakettleTeakettleTeakettle: the sound of the steam.
Close your eyes and it could be any season: a Carolina wren; a scolding nuthatch; twittering finches; a loud, hoarse cough up in the woods.
A Carolina wren stops by and pours out fifteen seconds of pure exuberance—just enough to remind me how much I’ve been missing. (Stay! Nest!)
The stream this morning is full of auguries, such as: “If you want to be master of all you survey, live in a ravine.” Carolina wren song.
Clear and very cold. I hear squirrel teeth on walnut shell. The Carolina wren’s happiness motor turns over once, twice, then putts to life.
A doe trailed by a scrawny 5-point buck. The soundtrack includes a train, a raven, geese, a wren, and a low-flying plane with a wide eraser.