Another Morning in Paradise

20 August 2024: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), White River Junction, Vermont

5:41 a.m. 55 degrees, wind NW 8 mph with gusts to 23. The progression of a textured, overcast sky. A wishbone of rose light proceeds the sun (if only I could see it), highlighting the rim of clouds on a mission. Although I wear a sweatshirt, gloves and a hat would be appropriate. Everywhere, a scattering of white ash seeds. Seven species of birds, including red-eyed vireo, the monotonous song less emphatic than in late May, and three loud corvids, voices cutting through the wind (common raven, American crow, and blue jay). Zero warblers.

AOR (alive-on-road): American dagger moth caterpillar—two inches long and thickly covered in cream-colored hairs with five longer, contrasting lashes of black hairs, four on the back and one near the butt. A tiny, shiny black head. Out of the wind and in no hurry, the caterpillar heads northeast. The altogether attractive caterpillar bears a message ... don't touch me. Hairs are toxic and cause allergic reactions. 

Eleven ravens engage the west wind, black stitches across the gray sky—calling, rolling, wings bent back, sliding by. Ravens are drawn to the wind like kids to the playground. Below them, three crows appear in the northeast, their flight far more of a struggle. Below them all, two blue jays skip the wind, calling and spilling sunflowers on my deck.

***

Late yesterday afternoon, sitting at his brother's dining room table in Grand Junction, Colorado, Jordan signed a three-year contract as a physical therapist in Tacoma. I watched a short video documenting the signing ... my last fledgling, the wind at his back, riding life’s current westward ... like the ravens.