5:21 a.m. (Two minutes after sunrise), 45 degrees. Windless and damp. Sky clouded over, a rumpled blanket with holes and tears in the east, radiant along their edges, lit by the hidden sun . . . again. Wetland: greener and greener; green visible from my front yard. Coltsfoot in seed. Trillium and sessile bellwort and round-leafed hepatica in flower. Bigtooth aspen catkins begin to litter the road. Yellow birch: a riot of mustard-colored catkins, a thousand two-inch bottlebrushes, pollen sacs await an appointment with the wind. Woods a quilt of pastel, mostly green, a dozen shades of green, names suited to Benjamin Moore paint chips: kelly green; forest green; avocado green; lime green, more yellow than green; emerald green. Red maple leaves, for the time being, more red than green. Sugar maple, more green than red. Aspen grayish-green. Pine needles a somber green, dark as dirt.
Woke up to titmice, whistling loudly and sharply, in the front yard. To the west, an owl in the patch-cut calling above the turkeys, which are still full of vim and vigor. Bittern in the north end of the wetland, called all night; still calls. Robins around the yard noisy; quiet elsewhere. Chickadees and juncos singing. Pair of Canada geese fly in from the northeast, honking; join mallard (his head a deeper green than the reeds; a blend of malachite and olive, perhaps). Geese exist southwest, voices fading in the distance. House wrens on the east side of the pond; least flycatcher (FOY) on the west.
See one hermit thrush; hear none. Four Nashville warblers and one Tennessee warbler, neither of which nest in the Volunteer State. Tennessee passing through Coyote Hollow but Nashville, following a plan pioneered last week by ovenbirds, divvy the valley; sing with alacrity and verve above the edge of footpaths, driveways, and woodland openings, pausing to feed now and again amid clusters of baby leaves. A female myrtle warbler on a maple drinks sap from a fresh ring of sapsucker holes, while the driller, preoccupied elsewhere, practices Morse Code.
Three male yellowthroats bolt upright in alders, singing. Poster-bird for COVID-19: wears a mask and practice social-distancing.
10:14 a.m. 54 degrees, wind WSW 3 mph. Clouds bruised and mounded; bright blue holes widening in the east. In a rich, moist woods in the valley of the White River, filled with hardwoods: sugar maple, white ash, yellow birch, black cherry. Hillside carpeted in ramps or wild leeks, literally, I’ve never seen so many. Go on a ramp-age with a friend, picking, picking, picking. Soon to be eating: potato-leek soup; tuna fish sandwich with wild leeks; bulbs in salad and pot roast, sautéd with scrambled eggs.
I'm all in on "marsh hawk" as well. No northern harrier for me.
Myrtle warbler? I thought I was the only one living in the past; how wonderful! A much better name.