6:22 a.m. 46 degrees, wind NNE 2 mph. Sky: fog along the Ompompanoosuc River, cloudless and hazy. I stood in the front yard last night, staring into the smoke-occluded Milky Way, which was analogous to star-gazing through a screen of gauze, dimmed stars barely a detectable twinkle. Permanent streams: upper and lower, more of the same . . . dry, drier, driest, a water table withdrawal. Wetlands: mist tight to the ground, hovers. Pond: water level drops, shoreline expands. Hay-scented ferns turn yellow; blackberry leaves purple. Yellow spreading through the woods; hints and suggestions compete with green as the sunny days and cold nights orchestrate Color; chlorophyll slowly spent and not replenished. Red arrives along the edge of the marsh, on broken drooping limbs and ill trees; elsewhere, bright light on the tips of branches, ever so slowly turning Vermont into a smokeless, fairy-tail blaze.
Phoebe on the fencepost, calling. Flicker on the lawn, anting. A few blue jays, here and there along the walk; others have dispersed or moved on—red-breasted nuthatches, numbers down, still very noisy. White-breasted nuthatches in the pines above the south corner of the marsh, wandering up and down trunks, calling and chasing. On the move? Maybe.
Pileated fractures the morning, hollers across the marsh, an unmeasured profusion of spirit. A wild culled voice savored, a gift for troubled times. I stand, listening to the woodpecker, wondering about western evergreens, driest of woodland tinder. About gender reveal parties and pyrotechnic displays. Eventually, I wonder about my own behavior in the age of metastasizing climate change. My patterns of travel. My level of consumption. My contribution to everything that's ailing Earth; and as much as I hate to admit to being part of a global problem, I am . . . and sadly, in spades. Me, a life filled with residual uncertainty. Change has to start somewhere; actions have consequences.