In the fog and mizzle, swelling yellow-green lilac buds are the brightest thing. A single jet goes over in all the time I sit outside.
Bright sun. The damp ground glistens like a salamander. A jet goes over—the first I’ve heard in a while.
A jet drags a vestigial contrail through the treetops, its roar far behind in the great blue bell which, by cliché, this clarity resembles.
A yellow gash appears in the clouds to the east and heals up again. The cardinal attacks his reflection. Military jets howl over, unseen.
A white-breasted nuthatch is barely audible over the whine of tires from the interstate. Two jet contrails form an X just above the sun.
Clear and cold. A contrail feathers in several directions. The dog makes a half-hearted run at a wood pigeon, who takes a half-hearted hop.
The usual parade of jets overhead. On the brown lawn, my partner is painting her climate strike sign green and blue.
Sunny and cool, with the only contrails for clouds. Four goldfinches glimpsed out of the corner of my eye look like leaves gusting overhead.
Cool and very clear. Even the jet thundering overhead looks porcelain. A small wasp is examining the undersides of the mock orange leaves.
A neighbor to the east is talking about his test scores. A neighbor to the west rips down an old fence. Overhead, jets hidden by the clouds.