5:25 a.m. 50 degrees, NW wind 4 mph. Saturated atmosphere: cloud ceiling thicker than cloud cellar, an extensive canopy of moisture born of the sky touching the earth, like a jungle sunrise without the sun. Mount Ascutney screened by mist. What's left of the moon remains hidden behind the eastern hills; the sun (somewhere) passes by.
Last night: not ideal migration conditions. Warblers like paper airplanes do better in a tailwind, stay aloft longer, cover more ground, and expend less energy. Thus far, 2020 spring migration in Coyote Hollow: more spillout than fallout; more dribble than spate; more whisper than shout. Today's warbler roster: black-throated green; black and white; northern parula (FOY); yellowthroat; ovenbird (three); yellow; blackburnian (FOY), and Nashville. Real fallout: May 16, 2016, Magee Marsh, south shore of Lake Erie, western, Ohio: Jordan and I overwhelmed by nineteen species of warblers, many eye-level and arm's length, idled on wooden railings and benches, flit through shrubs. Exhausted warblers. Hungry warblers. Some so close we took portraits of them with cellphones. Waves of bay-breasted and Cape May warblers, birds I don't often see in Vermont. Dozens of hooded and prothonotary warblers, birds I never see in Vermont. Birds beyond counting. Joyous and bewildered, we just looked at them . . . The fallout also included rock-star birders, Victor Emanuel and Kenn Kaufman, among them, both of who we also looked at.
A migratory event not repeated here in Coyote Hollow today, however. South of me, bittern calls from the reeds; north of me, turkeys gobble in the oaks. A stereophonic walk. In between: a wood thrush sings (perhaps he'll stay); two winter wrens, songs somewhat subdued. A Nashville warbler probes new leaves high in a cherry, wandering between old webworm webs, which hang like frayed socks. Sings two-part song; enriches my walk. Pairs of chickadees heedless of social-distancing, forage too closely together. Blackburnian warbler sings from a veil of hemlock branches. Who needs AARP's weekly invitation to have my hearing tested . . . I can still hear blackburnian high notes, the tinkling of distant chimes. More whisper than croon.
11:47 a.m. 54 degrees. Still overcast. Still humid. Ever the hopeful observer . . . reeds look bigger and greener than this morning. Front yard, waiting his turn at the feeder: a disgruntled (or impatient) male rose-breasted grosbeak, high in an oak, a rain of sharp ick, ick, ick.