6:51 a.m. 45 degrees, wind NNW 7 mph, stirs spindly trees. Sky: cloud islands full of shape and promise, rimmed in rose and peach, mobile; in the east, hollowed-out half-moon, bright as polished silver, emerges from behind a cloud. Permanent streams: refreshed, infused by last night's thunderstorms, which entertained and then interrupted a front-yard, socially-distanced picnic (first time Jordan had been home in six weeks and I couldn't hug him). Wetlands: merlin above the north end, no-flap soaring, tight ovals above a stand of aspen, then arrows south, assisted by the wind. Pond: A mother, asleep in her car, while her boy bow-hunts, wakes up. Dressed in camouflage and high boots seems ready for the Apocalypse. She likes birds. She mentions robins, which have been flying by since first light. I mention kinglets.
Aspens: more yellow than green, a rich, buttery tone.
Chickadees inspect curled bark of yellow birch; white-breasted nuthatches peeling cherry bark. As gray as stone, a titmouse lands on a stone wall. Geese on the go, honking in a marbled sky. Beyond the eastern rim of the valley, the land drops down toward the Connecticut River; pileated calls from the east, a faint and haunting laugh.
The silence of March seems long ago. A COVID quietness that kept most everyone home. No cars. No planes. An unmarried sky. The church bells of Post Mills never sounded so sweet. Apparently, we weren't the only species that recognized the absence of noise pollution. Recently, Science reported that white-crowned sparrows in San Fransisco sang softer than before lockdown, at bandwidths more typical of the quieter 1970s. Without the constant hum of land and air traffic, sparrows hit higher notes and sang at a wider bandwidth. This past April, male sparrows reported Science, likely heard each other from twice as far away as before the pandemic. And unerringly and accordingly, adjusted their songs.
If sparrows accommodate new realities . . . can't we?