6:07 a.m. 61 degrees, wind SSW 0 mph. Sky: just waking up; half-moon overhead, Venus down in the west; ground fog constricts visibility; small diffuse clouds express the sun's pinkness. Permanent streams: upper, a stuttering flow; lower, bed lightly seasoned with basswood leaves, yellow on stone gray. Wetlands: mist in thin layers, nocturnal sediments; the autumnal fuse lit; sparks catching; color advancing . . . several red maples smolder . . . inflame the southeast border of the marsh. Pond: hazy, still, surround-sound red-breasted nuthatches.
DOR: small toad
A barred owl, signing off for the day, draws out a whooo. Two yellow-billed cuckoos calling; the sound of sticks knocking.
Just before the sun, a red squirrel darts across the road, late for work.
Yesterday afternoon, shortly before sunset: a perfect day for dragonflies, warm and hot, still. Above a corner of the yard, partially confined by the kitchen and sunroom, half-a-mile from the marsh, they circled and dipped, like grains of rice in a roiling boil, the frenzy of dragonflies.
Why here? Why now?
Only a handful coursed above the pasture, or above the garden, where white butterflies fluttered from broccoli to broccoli, proclaiming edibility. But the dragonflies had eyes, gorgeous round compound eyes that transmit a hundred images simultaneously like a curved wall of flickering TV screens, only for this small corner of the lawn. Here they gathered, a cloud of ancient insects, long, transparent wings brushing windows, cedar clapboards, blueberry bushes, and me, stirring the otherwise still air.
Perpetual motion. I recognized one of several species, the common green darner by its flashy blue abdomen, the so-called "darning needle" of my childhood that I was told would sew my mouth shut if I sassed my mother. (I think my mother said that to me.) Green darners are abundant, perhaps the most abundant dragonfly in North America. Their arrival in the front yard was purposeful, competitive, and short-lived.
Then, I noticed a swarm of winged ants rising from the edges of the slate walkway. To confirm my suspicions, I tossed an ant into the air and watched it disappear amid a swirl of wings. An hour later, when the ant exodus ended, the dragonflies left, a roving band of aerial predators in search of another windfall.
Flying ants lure nighthawks, too, whose migration through the Connecticut River valley has begun to petter. The joys and sadness of a season in transition.