5:49 a.m. (sunrise seven minutes later than last Wednesday, August 4.) 72 degrees, wind S 5 mph, a humid, haze-softened world as though looking through tissue. Dog days. An unsociably pale sun lacks dominance; the north ridge along the White River and Moose Mountain along the east side of the Connecticut River, blue-gray undulations above a flat landscape. Beyond them, distant hills overshadowed by haze. Low clouds scud north, high clouds stable. Below an archway of dying ferns, an intermittent stream morphs into a series of silent puddles.
August brushed by autumn. Seasonal pageant: grasshoppers in meadows; cicadas in woods. Evening cameos, crickets and katydids, tuning up for the big show. Each morning for the past week, a flock of roving blackbirds, primarily grackles, skims the treetops. This morning, a swirl of wings, the sound of shredding paper over a meadow bright with goldenrod and Queen Anne's lace. Juvenile bluebirds on an electric line. Phoebe on a limb, tail in motion. Goldfinches, the original vegan, avoids ingesting insects and spiders. Dines on seeds, seeds alone. A late nester stretches summer. Spider silk secure nests in meadow trees and shrubs. Forages in unmowed pastures and on my sunflower feeders, in the company of house finches, chickadees, white- and red-breasted nuthatches, titmice, chipping sparrows, juncos, cardinals, and around the deck from hummingbirds.
Goldfinch yellow, ultimate yellow, brighter than goldenrod, more brilliant than Jerusalem artichoke. In the company of lemon and butter. Each breast and back feather is two-toned, yellow anterior, cream-white posterior. Overlapping feather tips reflect yellow light. The light that penetrates to the white portion of the feathers bounces back. Creates a photographer's dream of synchronized backlighting and front lighting . . . . seen from the deck, against the green woods, goldfinches like aberrant specks of sunrise. Audubon, paintbrush in hand, hung thistles with goldfinches, which leap from the page, as they do from my backyard, with incandescent brilliance. A shy but persistent songbird, goldfinches flush with the slightest provocation . . . but, lured by hunger, return. Forgiveness, the essence of hope.
Last night, two bats (species unknown) seined for insects above the deck and driveway, silhouettes below a pale, thin moon, back and forth, around and around, dipping and turning. Pivoting on wingtips, spinning compasses, an unencumbered flight . . . slow enough to follow, fast enough to appreciate. Survivors of the white-nosed holocaust. Another sign of hope. I couldn't take my eyes off the bats coursing above the treetops. I stood free from the grief of an unhinged climate, free from the grief of the delta and lambda variants, lost in the amnesty of the moment . . . free as the bats themselves.
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A lifelong naturalist and Yankee fan, Ted Levin follows a trail blazed by John Burroughs and John Muir, neither of who paid baseball much attention. His work has appeared in Audubon, Sports Illustrated, National Geographic Traveler, The New York Times, The Boston Globe, The Guardian, and The Daily Telegraph, among many other publications. His nonfiction works include Backtracking: The Way of Naturalist, Blood Brook: A Naturalist’s Home Ground, and Liquid Land: A Journey Through the Florida Everglades, which won the Burroughs Medal in 2004, the highest literary honor awarded to an American nature writer. E. O. Wilson called America’s Snake, Ted’s most recent book, beautifully written [demonstrating] just how good nature literature can be. He divides his time between the deck and the road.
As usual, Julia, I enjoy your thoughtful comments. For the moment, on the deck each night, I'm at peace with the bats. Observation, a rather cleansing activity. I imagine the night skies of Michigan must hold a few bats.
Thanks, Ted! I am back living in Vermont and could not be more grateful. Hope you are well!