5:26 a.m. 58 degrees, wind NNE 0 mph. Sky: mottled with flat blue-gray; as the sun rises over the eastern escarpment, a single peach-tinged highlight gradually infiltrates other clouds, until most buffed with silver. Fog pockets sit above half dozen marshes, a serpentine ribbon above the East Branch of the Ompompanoosuc River. Permanent streams: one a whisper; the other a gurgle. Wetlands: vaguely softened by mist, which vanishes above the trees. Pond: sans bittern and otter; surface calm and thoughtful, more haze than ripple; second-year old tadpoles, joining terrestrial ranks, reenact the 360 million-year-old drama that led eventually to Jonas Salk and Derek Jeter. Thankfully, not a single deer fly.
Scarlet tanager sings, robustly. I peer high into the oaks, where leaves hang green and guarded, my view buffered. Tanager plans it this way. But why? Every feather of raiment—red body worthy of Benjamin Moore set against wings as black as midnight—needs to be seen to be believed. His pack-a-day voice draws my attention, which is not his best attribute. It's the color, jungle incarnate, that keeps me looking, keeps my neck frozen, and the dogs puzzled.
House wren sings a clipped version of his chart-topping hit, hurriedly, as though late for an appointment. A blue jay flies by with a caterpillar; calls, its mouth full. A bird of intemperate song, a red-eyed vireo, a vociferous opponent of the Dog Days, performs with early June enthusiasm. Everyone else—white-throated sparrow, song sparrow, chickadee, both nuthatches, catbird, mourning dove, purple finch, phoebe—sings an abridged song. Again, a yellow-billed cuckoo, an echo from down the valley . . . I can get used to this.
An act of extreme social-distancing: a crow calls into a landscape empty of crows. No answer. I caw back, trying to make a lonely bird feel at home, black and shiny on a pine limb. What became of his flock? Like people, crows crave company . . . just not mine.