5:17 a.m. 72 degrees, wind E 5 mph. Sky: overcast and constipated; half-moon hides behind a low rack of clouds; spitting rain, pulses of moisture that hasten the walk, reminiscent of walking in the dusk. Permanent streams: anemic, less water than yesterday, which was next to nothing. Wetlands: verdant, about as green as possible without an umbrella. Pond: a wind-driven current; tadpoles on the verge of frogs gulp air. In the open, patches of interrupted ferns glisten with raindrops; others, shielded under the canopy, dry.
House wren and tananger sing truncated songs. Black and white warbler whistles to himself, quietly and thoughtfully; whenever the wind exerts itself, his melody swallowed by the currents running through the trees. Juncos, trilling and chipping, busy themselves on the ground and in the pines. Redstart finds his voice. A veery's liquid song cascades out of a tenebrous landscape; a corkscrew put to music—a watery incantation.
A deer snort in the gloom. Dogs rally, ears up, leashes taut.
A dark, ominous cloud of grackles and redwings, absent since early May, descend on my raspberry patch. An indefatigable hunger. I need a goshawk. Time to overcome inertia and start picking.