6:14 a.m. 55 degrees, wind WNW 4 mph, aspens rejoice, shimmy in the breeze; every other tree staid. Sky: ground fog loosens grip on streams and wetlands; clouds blue-gray, a few immaculately white, parade above the valley; most rimmed in fruit-bowl color: peach in the west, tangerine in the east, which glows before the sun; in between the cloud train . . . azure. Permanent streams: a celebration of rain; upper, gurgles, again, progress with flair; a veery rock-hops under the wooden bridge; lower, puddles linked, babbling passage. Intermittent streams: recharged (for the moment), a short-lived aqueous resurrection. Wetlands: rich color under a sky impregnated with clouds. Pond: wind-impressed reflections, a Monet without waterlilies. Everywhere, the din of crickets. Busy squirrels, no time to chatter, punch a seasonal clock, a rain of green pinecones. I watch one fall; suppress the urge to catch it.
A scattering of yellow and red leaves, loosened by rain—the yellow of basswood and cherry; the red of maple; a scattering of green acorns, loosened by blue jays. A large, broken maple branch hangs-straight down by a strip of bark, an autumn torch, more than a hundred red leaves, chilled sparks in green woods soon to be ablaze.
Two pileateds on either side of the wetlands, reverberating laughter; send a message in the crisp. Then, stop. Never birds to tolerate prolonged silence, blue jays and crows chime in, filling in the blank spaces. One crow follows another high over the marsh, ink-spots in a cloud-crowed sky; west and then north, and gone, dragging their caws behind them. Two groups of red-breasted nuthatches, tin horns honking, move through the canopy, drifting south like the season. Out over the road, pewee lands on an ash branch, whistles a sad tune, the stubbornness of summer. Second and third pewee fly into the ash; only the first one sings, exposed on the limb . . . and then gone, taking the final notes of the season with them.
Quiet, ever so peaceful; a holding of tongues: stopover red-eyed vireos move through big-toothed aspen; methodically harvest caterpillars. Diurnal fattening; nocturnal flight; refuel before the Amazon Basin. One vireo, trip cut short by a bay window, a fatal migratory breach, rests in my cupped hands. Short, stout legs. Blunt, hooked bill, long for a small bird. Dark-bordered gray crown. Long, flat head. White eyebrow; black eyeline. Greenish-gray above. White below; pale yellow undertail coverts. Wings unmarked and long, greenish; extend nearly to the toes. Red eyes went dull.
Its little body, once a palace of promise, the seat of a hyperbolic voice, now stiff and cold; an ephemeral treasure admired and displayed, and then sadly scrapped . . . bird lost in the tragedic transparency of my own glass.