6:24 a.m. 30 degrees, wind SSE 0 mph. Sky: California wildfire smoke has gone; peach brush-work across the south; grades to flossy clouds, long like fingers that stretch north across the valley; frost in the pastures, the raspberries, the garden; zucchini and tomatoes have had better mornings; past two evenings, operation basil rescue, an eleventh-hour pesto transformation. Wetlands: a hard glaze, marsh more white than beige; a thin belt of mist suspended above the frost and below the canopy; five blue jays head south above the ruin of late September, shrill screams, sting; a catbird, tucked in alders, gripes. Pond: rolling mist, bordering frost. Ostrich fern brown and withered. Christmas fern green and listless. Hillsides, lit by the rising sun, a floral smolder, reds and yellows descending. Ash leaves yellow with purple tinge; open late, fall early.
Late yesterday afternoon, I nearly stepped on a woodcock, which flushed off the trail along the east side of the upper pasture, a muffled explosion. A chunky sandpiper: round-headed, widely spaced eyes, preceded by stiletto bill—whirring wings not almost as loud as when I startle a mourning dove. Turkeys stir up leaves along the driveway, mine for acorns. Red-breasted nuthatches conspicuous, tin-horn fanfare announces the exit of summer and the arrival of autumn, the third wave of an irruptive migrant. A fluffed-out chickadee pulls a webworm out of its tent. Another chickadee plucks a large, chilled caterpillar off a maple leaf; bangs it against the branch and then swallows; pauses a moment, composes itself, blinks, and flies off.
Red-shouldered hawk hurls an epitaph for summer across the marsh, a loud, long, piercing cry . . . over and over. Passes above the road and the wetlands, his orange breast lit by an orange sun. Hawk delivers the morning news, faithfully and poignantly. Today, on the cusp of autumn, he chides a world in flux, reminding me that helps begins at home. And, here at home, I'll age in place, the world on my doorstep.