6:24 a.m. 28 degrees, wind SE 0 mph. Sky: valley fog gridlock, mostly from the Connecticut and Ompompanoosuc rivers and lakes Fairlee and Morey. Permanent streams: upper, the memory of flow—three puddles and a damp channel; lower, a catch basin for furloughed leaves, mostly basswood and ash. Wetlands: hard frost, valley fog suspended at treetops. Marsh dulls and without highlights; spiderwebs with crystalized dew, droop like chandeliers. Pond: water-level down, pulls away from the shore, a steep bank like the winter beach on Fire Island, muddy rims tracked by raccoon and otter.
Last night, I sat on the lawn, beneath a crescent tangerine-colored moon, sinking in the west, the last moon of the COVID summer. I considered the tipped-up moon. And then, the virus; the little bats above the pasture and the final southbound nighthawk; the upcoming election; the local drought and the western wildfires; the worldwide climate fiasco; the fact that I can't afford an electric car; the dispersal of my boys, my developing bunion. While my burgers turned to carbon.
White-throated sparrow bonanza, both morphs. White crown-striped and tan crown-striped. The epitome of integration. Each morph nearly always mates with the opposite morph. White-stripe, the more aggressive of the two, nests in a more open habitat, often close and sings more conspicuously than the timid tan-stripe. In fact, white-striped females sing more than tan-striped males. Female tan-striped morphs, however, make better parents, provide more care than their polymorphic counterparts.
Red-breasted nuthatches could be my constant companion over the next six months. They're everywhere and off-key—a discordant concert. A flock of jays, moving through the crowns of white ash, free leaves, flecks of yellow and dull purple drift down. Foliar emancipation.
On the surface, a lackluster sunrise . . . but behind the transparently sallow curtain, if you take the time to peek through, you'll find a world in perpetual edit. Birds and bats coming and going. Mammals harvesting, fattening, slaughtering, moving through the night on silent feet. The withdrawal of frogs. The appearance of Color, a cold chromatic fire, a wonder of Earth slowly turning my hermitage into a visual amusement park. I miss my boys . . . but what a platform to yearn from.
Behind the barn door, bats, party of five, chilled and motionless.