6:04 a.m. 46 degrees, wind W 1 mph. Sky: unsullied by clouds; in the west, the three-quarter moon and Venus charm the sky, supervise sunrise here, while bearing down on Ohio; my own breath, a gaunt mist. Crickets: the hum of pre-dawn. Permanent streams: upper, inflammation at the source, ground-water deprived, slowing and drying, a laryngitic tributary that lost its voice several days ago; lower, a boneyard of water-smooth rocks. Wetlands: a half-bowl of mist, thicker than breath, thinner than fog; a legacy of the Ice Age drying out, struggles for relevancy. Pond: still surface; rolling dampness, light and haggard. Spotted sandpiper, winter plumage—unspotted, brown and white—teeters along the shoreline, a narrow skirt of mud; butt up, butt down, out on a tiny, pointy peninsula; its bill to the water touches its own reflection; two birds, one real, the other an illusion. Holds eloquent pose; the appearance of pervasive self-absorption; the narcissism of hunger. Unique among birds, female spotted sandpipers arrive earlier on the breeding than males. There, they stake out territories and mate with as many as four males, providing each with a clutch of eggs to incubate. Liberated, the females roam the shorelines of the continent while the males hatch the chicks.
Red-breasted nuthatches (again) took the red-eye and pitched into the Hollow early this morning, the first bird I heard when I stepped out the door. Groups on both sides of the road and around the wetlands, everywhere and vocal. Tin-horn fanfare for the sun. Loud crows and a red-shouldered hawk rip holes in the morning. Jungle cry of a pileated woodpecker . . . straight from the Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O'Sullivan movie, Tarzan the Ape Man. Loons and eastern screech-owls also lend their voices to inappropriate movie landscapes. Canyon treefrogs, too.
Red squirrels, invested; the indefatigable joy of hard work before sunrise, out on the thinnest of twigs clipping pinecones, one after the other; run back to the trunk; a moment of security and then on out on a limb, again exposed. The vulnerability of September squirrels; Cooper's hawks and goshawks could have the pick of the litter. At the moment (here), no marauding hawks. I watch the squirrels for a long while.
Sparks of vermillion. Specks of yellow. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. The gift of being homebound. The opulence of a September sunrise.