6:03 a.m. 55 degrees, wind 3 SW, a steady rain, at times pouring. Sky: shapeless, a dull gray sheet; a parade of moisture. Woods: uninviting; brooding darkness; the long dawn of a downpour. Permanent streams: upper, flow upstaged by rain; lower, damp earth but hopeful. Wetlands: a deer bounds across the marsh, east to west; white flag up, a beacon in an otherwise streaked and discolored landscape. Pond: a surface dance of raindrops; west drifting mist. The sound of rain overwhelms the hum and chirp of crickets. No splashing of pinecones; red squirrels still in bed, snugging their tails.
Jays and crows, feathers soaked, as active and loud as ever, flying across the marsh and the pond; roving through the oaks, tree by tree . . . always something to say. Outside the barn, a gang of songbirds in the rain, integrated and hungry, patroling the big red oak by the west door, the bat door. A flock of warblers, unstoppable whispers; unbroken activity . . . unknown identities, joined by neighborhood chickadees; together turn their own dripping bodies into flickers of hope. I stand in the doorway, dry for the moment, moored by the murmuring chorus. Accompanied by the warm thought that many of these little, wet birds will, tomorrow, turn the Western Hemisphere into a personal roadmap; crossing the Gulf, or island-hopping the Caribbean, or passing down the long spine of Mexico . . . border-crossings be damned; their lives a collaboration with an ever-changing planet, a covenant with the mysteries, and magic of time.