A yellow gash appears in the clouds to the east and heals up again. The cardinal attacks his reflection. Military jets howl over, unseen.
Unseasonably warm. A patchy gray sky. Gliding high above the trees, a vulture, unseasonably far north.
Cold and still. Mares’ tails running north-south slowly soften into wool. Fresh tire tracks on the road. A crow’s distant note of protest.
Clouds slowly thin. Facing southeast, I watch tree branches turn to black latticework against the sun as it sharpens from smear to blaze.
Fast-moving clouds make the illumination of the hillside as sudden and surprising as a magician’s trick. Fallen leaves turn over one by one.
Late morning, and it’s still not fully light—the clouds are too heavy. The sound of rain on the dry leaves like fat sizzling in a fryer.
Clouds slowly vanish in the blue—like my own puffs of breath, but slower. Chickadees; a nuthatch. The forest floor goes from glow to shine.
Another bright-sky morning that slowly turns white. A shy coal tit waits till all the other birds are gone to launch a sortie on the suet.
Dawn. A gull flies sideways below lowering clouds. The silhouette of a small cat appears on the wall behind the neighbor’s bird feeder.
Wind-blown mizzle. Clank and rattle at the end of the block as workers disassemble scaffolding, safety-green coats against the gray clouds.