Another Morning in Paradise
28 August 2024: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), White River Junction, Vermont
5:12 a.m. 64 degrees, wind S 4 mph. Clear overhead, starry and congested in the northeast. Streaks of pink morph into a rose wash by sunrise. At the top of the morning sky, the bright moon, less than half, keeps Mars and Saturn company; silhouetted hardwoods hide the remainder of the visible planets—swaying leaves sweep away the night. Eleven species of birds, including zero (recognizable) warblers, disgruntled crows and ravens, a ruby-throated hummingbird in a lilac, and a house wren. A trio of black-capped chickadees culls through the front yard crabapple, one leaf, one twig at a time—a constant rain of dee, dee, dee. Red-eyed vireo, stunned to silence by the start of the new school year (I can relate) ... conspicuous by its reticence, mum as a mushroom, the forces of its life tuned toward departure.
Above a clearing in the woods, a pulse of bats, five maybe six (species unknown) trolls for moths and flying ants, back and forth, above and below the canopy, erratic like heartbeats—dawn's fibrillation. Nighthawk slices through bat chaos—a straight, rowing flight above the treetops. Bats disperse. Return, comb through dawn ... and then head south one valley at a time.
A family of goldfinches on the deck, mother and father on the feeder, chick on the railing begging—wings lowered and quivering, tail feathers spread like a poker hand.
Two owls conversed on the hillside last night, straight through the witching hours, one above the other below my home. I rolled over and listened. Although I had no idea what the owls said, I felt anticipation—like the sun rising and filling the world with light.
I guess that's what happens when I haven't written for a few days.
Beautiful writing