5:46 a.m. 46 degrees, wind SSE 1 mph. Sky: palest powder blue, pink wash across the south, a brushstroke of fluff across the north; ribbons of ground fog rise above the East and West branches of the Ompompanoosuc, coalescing at Union Village, a treetop flow that, like the river itself has been pinched by oddly shaped hills. An ephemeral flow, land caressed, breeze harassed; converts a late August sunrise into an alluring dreamscape . . . until reclaimed by the sun. Permanent streams: upper, snail-paced and silent; lower, distilled to a stagnating puddle that even water striders avoid. Wetlands: pileated laughs across a shallow pool of mist, as poignant as the sound of church bells, which float over from Post Mills. Pond: slight mist drifts north on a deathbed breeze. White ash seeds spilled out a tree last night, a patch of road peppered with little green lances; individual ashes must have their own seed-drop schedule; trees don't overwhelm seed predators all at one time, like red oak and blackberry. The murmur of chilled crickets and katydids. Too cold for the buzz of cicadas, which hang in place high in the trees.
The ebb of summer: one pewee whistles, as plaintively as ever; one red-eyed vireo sings, first I've heard in two days, less forceful, less repetitive, less imperative, a redundant song drowned out by a chorus of blue jays. A jay mimics a red-shouldered hawk, others holler and bark, which carries on cold, thin currents. White-breasted nuthatches, chickadees, and tufted titmice singing and calling, segregated flocks up and down the valley—lots of chips and peeps; voices of the unseen. Like frost, integration not far off.
Another pulse of red-breasted nuthatches touched down last night off the end of the driveway, far fewer than the other day. Tiny blue-gray birds darting in dimly lit woods. Like a tricycle rendezvous, tin horns piercing. Bits and pieces of boreal Canada, driven south by hunger, en route to the outer beaches of Long Island and New Jersey. Sharp bill, unique toes, and intuitive knowledge of the edge of the continent, where nuthatches assemble by the hundreds, to be lulled to sleep by the gray chop. An irruptive associate of gulls and sanderlings and wintering saw-whet owls, which might eat them if they're not careful. . . in praise of the blissful freedom of movement, of the fate of the well-traveled.