6:58 a.m. 28 degrees, wind NNW 0 mph. Sky: one mauve cloud in the west lords over the marsh, the remainder of the sky clean and powder blue. Permanent streams: upper, last twenty-four hours less impact; three-quarters full and singing, fed by reliable water; lower, last twenty-four hours more impact; noticeably less water than yesterday; Although still carrying a tune, fed by less reliable water than upper. Wetlands: a cold air sink; heavy frost, a crystalline glaze. A world two F-stops overexposed. What was dark brown appears tan; what was tan appears eggshell; green reeds that marked the main channel appear ghostly . . . blanched by the hunger of the night. Alder leaves frost-rimmed and burnt. Pond: gives up heat, a smoky drift. Daintily, two sparrows, white-throated and Lincoln's, perched on the head of goldenrods, eat seeds, stems flopping, birds bounce as though on a trampoline.
Along the dirt brown road, three yellow-orange stripes, each the width of a tree-crown, all maple, one red and two sugar. Leaves fell overnight, still dropping, straight down on a windless morning—a porous curtain closes on the season, leaf by leaf.
An unseen red-shouldered hawk screams. A migrant? Crows and jays, busy and noisy, work disparate venues, crows the air, jays the trees. White-breasted nuthatches yanking, unseen in the woods. Chickadees being chickadees, cheerful birds on a frigid morning. Doves, a baker's dozen, scavenge under the feeder; tiny headed; rush to flight, often into the bay window. I think of doves as simple birds, fast, powerful fliers but not keen problem-solvers. By comparison, chickadees emerge as Einstein stand-ins.
Along the edge of the driveway, a hermit thrush picks through a fresh crop of colored leaves. An October hush, a diluted version of April, when he threw back his head and set the valley on fire, providing two months of hauntingly beautiful music, flung carelessly and dispassionately as the wind. Now, flipping yellow leaves, flipping yellow silence. The frenzied pace of life subdued . . . but still a gift. Passionately watchful, I can't take my eyes off the thrush. One merciful song, please. One last song to ward off the decay of summer.