Cold at mid-morning, warm by noon: every hour I take off another layer. The blurry spot on my glasses turns out to be two midges, mating.
Foggy and damp. Small flies—or large midges—drift back and forth. A few branches high in the big tulip tree appear to be freshly debarked.
Warm enough to read outside. I look up to see a midge drifting toward the snowy woods. I look up again and it’s turned into a silent bird.