6:15 a.m. (sunrise two minutes earlier than yesterday). 43 degrees, wind N 0 mph. Sky: cloudless and bright, pastel traces along the southern rim, light ground fog in the lowlands. Permanent streams: water levels slowly drop; lower stream, an emerging mud bar. Wetlands: rising columns of mist spread horizontally over the marsh, umbrellas of moisture. Out of the pines above the derelict beaver dam, a red-shouldered hawk hurls voice like a javelin. Another hawk answers, the morning cracks open. From the opposite end of the marsh, hidden in hemlock shade, pileated riffs behind the hawks. Pond: fifty feet above the water, flying and gliding, constantly screaming, red-shoulder, followed by a second, smaller hawk, the male. Both birds head southwest, quickly veer north, and circle above the pond. Eventually, hawks land in sugar maple, several branches apart, one above the other, screaming like banshees. Hawks against a bright sky, dominating the airwaves. For the moment, even the persistence of jays and crows ushered into the background.
Airborne, again. One red-shouldered hawk flies west into the next valley; driven to distraction by a robin, the other heads east over the ridge. Barbed cries fade. Then, within minutes, both birds return, the sky their stage, the sun their set light. Hawks transcribe circuits high above the marsh, gliding and flapping, voices flung into the emptiness.
Chickadees whistling twenty minutes before sunrise. Robins caroling. The liquid song of a hermit thrush rolls out of the pines. Winter wren. Sapsucker. Titmice and nuthatches, both species. Pair of creepers directly above me. Leaning back, trying to see them, I almost fall over. Scraps of bark chase each other. Male sings high, musical notes, among the first notes that vanish as we age out.
Grouse drumming in the hardwoods, wings flapping faster and faster, building to a crescendo, a blur of motion. A blur of sound. Low as a heartbeat, a vibration felt as much as heard. Grouse music comes from the ground up. Creeper music from the top down . . . a goosebump melody.
Glory days before blackflies and mosquitoes. My windows and doors are open. Laundry's on the clothesline. Fresh air and birdsong filter through the house. Turkeys dance in the front yard. Hawks spark the Hollow with sharp, persistent calls. An urgency of frogs in woodland pools. Living gifts wakening, returning, procreating.
Spring, the very scaffolding of the year . . . what more could I ask for?