rose bush

Hot and humid. A silver-spotted skipper draws my eye to a bindweed trumpet, its silent hosannas seemingly aimed at the ancient rose bush.

On this date

Shadows lose their sharp edges as thin, high clouds move in. Where the coyote chorus sang last night, now only the distant howls of children. …

A goldfinch lands on a hummingbird feeder and looks all around for seeds. The butterfly known as a red-spotted purple rests on a folding chair. …

When the neighbors' rooster finally stops crowing, the incessant singing of the red-eyed vireo seems as hushed as the murmur of a stream. …

Weak sunlight: a milkiness in the sky like the film that forms over the eyes of the dead. A lone fawn runs bleating through the forest. …

Cool and clearing. Three deer chase through the meadow, coats sleek with dew, bounding high to glimpse each other through the tall weeds. …

Spots of red in the garden: old leaves on the evening primroses, new leaves on the witch hazel, which seems to be having a prolonged spring. …

The first beebalm's forked, scarlet tongues. Nearby on a still-green bergamot bud, a netwing beetle's antennae test the sudden sunlight. …

Beside the springhouse, the twittering zoom of a hummingbird's courtship dive: from sunlight into cattail shadows and back. Tanager song. …

A squirrel is making a nest in a black locust with small branches it bites off a little higher up, plundering the roof to build the floor. …

The Morning Porch