Mid-morning, and a small fly warms itself on the black keys of my laptop. The crow family makes its usual racket off in the sun-stuck woods. Vireos and a wood pewee reiterate their territorial claims.
American crow
Damp and overcast for the dawn chorus, which includes the accelerating buzz of a black-throated blue warbler, and a yellow-throated vireo slurring his syllables. The hidden sunrise gets noted, as usual, by a crow.
White-throated sparrows sing back at forth at sunrise—so much less intense than the song battle between phoebes at first light. A silent crow heads toward the compost pile.
Cold and overcast after a night of rain. The creek is a full chorus. A crow alights in the big tulip tree, breaks off a twig and carries it away.
A fur of hoarfrost that lingers long after the daily woodpecker drum circle has broken up. A raven croaks in answer to a crow, under a hospital-white sky.
Thick fog alive with robin and red-winged blackbird song. The spring gurgles under the yard. The wingbeats of a crow pass overhead.
The croaking of ravens has given way to the yelling of crows. As the sun heats the porch roof, it begins to weep melted frost. Contrails linger in the sky like old scars.
Not a cloud in the sky, and many of the scattered white patches on the ground won’t last till tomorrow. The monotony of crow takes over from the monotony of a tufted titmouse.
Misty and gray, with endless commentary from crows. The sun appears for half a minute without coming fully out, as pileated woodpeckers cackle in the yard.
Having spent the below-zero portion of the morning snug in bed, I luxuriate in strong sunlight mediated only by the skeletons of trees. Down-hollow, a committee of crows has formed to spread awareness about the location of some poor, drowsy owl.
Sunrise. A spirited argument breaks out between a raven and some crows as the sky’s ephemeral pagentry fades to gray.
A flat-white sky crossed by the occasional crow. From the other house, finch chatter at the feeder erupts and subsides every few minutes.
An hour past sunrise, the clouds are darker closer to the horizon. Three crows are having an argument in the treetops that ends with one of them angrily leaving the premises. The hiss of wind.
Cold, overcast, and quieter even than Christmas day. An hour past sunrise, the sky brightens a little. Two crows fly past, yelling. The gloom returns.