5:07 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday; fifteen hours and twenty-one minutes of daylight). 64 degrees, wind N 1 mph. Sky: splendid mix of textures and shapes—an aerial six-pack; shades of blue, mostly pastel, a hint of mauve advancing across the east. Without fog but not without mosquitoes, which gather on the dogs' snouts and my sandaled feet. Permanent streams: water volume dropping, bird volume rising—least flycatcher and house wren, upper; black-throated blue warbler and red-eyed vireo, lower. Wetlands: green tones, reeds hide open water. Hooded merganser hen, brushing the treetops, duck with a plan, pitches over the alders, wings bowed, rocking and tilting—a fast, flapless descent—the warble of flight calls attention to itself. It lands on the pond with a splash, skids on the surface like a shell. Pond: merganser, off the far shore, feathered helmet opening and closing, calling—more bark than quack. Dives once, twice, three times—each a bullseye within the heart of unfurling ripples. Bobs up like a bathtub toy, once with a tiny crayfish in her bill—no sign of ducklings. Snapping turtle idles against a steep mud bank, head just below the surface. The third morning in a row. Sees me. She turns around and scoots along the bottom, a descent into salvation, clouds of deeply disturbed silt spread in her wake. Whirligig beetles embroider the surface, aquatic penmanship, fleeting script. Sunrise serenade. Hermit thrush shoehorns voice into the morning, supplants turtle and beetles and duck; a boy with a new toy, overwhelmed by brilliance.
DOR: garter snake and peeper, so small and delicate
AOR: robins foraging, primarily on slow, grit-encrusted worms and broken June bugs.
Red-eyed vireoes, five, making up for a slow start, one off the end of the driveway, dawn's broken record, leads me down the road and back again, barely a pause. Female cardinal singing by the upper stream, short, choppy whistles, and flares. Pileated drum roll. Agitated grouse burst out of roadside weeds, wings fluttering, tail fanned, a noteworthy (and successful) performance. Dogs interested but restrained.
Two veeries chase each other across the road, brown on the verge of orange. One pauses on a branch, sings, music spiraling out of the damp woods. An article published in Scientific Reports suggests that veeries sense a busy Atlantic hurricane season months in advance and prematurely stop re-nesting attempts. Head for Brazil on the red-eye. As a hurricane season predictor, the abandonment of second (or third) nesting attempts was more accurate than leading meteorological computer models, wrote the paper's author. Although his sample size was small, the Delaware biologist studied a population of veeries for two decades. We live in a mysterious world, more mysterious than we can imagine.
As buttery light slides down Robinson Hill, I leave the angelic-voiced veeries for an angelic-voiced wood thrush. The lure of songbirds, enthralled by Earth music . . . a salve for the bubble-wrapping of my life. In between sunrise thrushes and early evening gin & tonic, unended discarding, packing, boxing, lugging, scrubbing, vacuuming, sweeping, dusting, disinfecting, complaining, holding grief at bay.
Birdsong, my lifeline flung at reality.
Such a beautiful, song-filled piece! You're right. The world is so much more mysterious than we can fathom.
Will miss your blog more than you suspect.
Packing and cleaning is existential.
Exit-stage- left-ial. Thrushes are magic.
Here at HOT midday it’s Robin, Yellowthroat, Chestnut sided, and a little floating solar fountain doing a plausible Black-billed cuckoo impression. Instant summer.