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There's something about fog in the fall—in November—in northern New England. Something colorful. And poignant. It's no wonder this time of year has Thanksgiving in it. I'm grateful for fog in the fall.
I have trouble naming the color of these fallen maple leaves and those few still stuck to their trees: brilliant flat gold, or vivid ochre, or bright dark yellow. Whatever its name, this color goes perfectly with fog gray, to my eyes. Perfectly. This color shines through the gray, even at a little distance. This color gives you recall of the maples when alive and teaming with birds and squirrels and spiders and beetles and flies and worms and fungus and wind; this color also perfectly represents the process of fading—it's a fleet color, not here for long, but long enough. Long enough to let me glimpse the utter empty white stillness that is sure to come before there'll be more green.
You have these big yellow leaves right in front of you, with all their blemishes and tar-spots and sheen, contrasting with the great vague fog that cloaks the world out there. You also have in your ears the near sound of dripping water—the large plops and splats of drops let loose from the trees and roof-edges to fall on the leaves that preceded them down, a sound like strange rain when it's not raining—contrasting with the far moan of the fog whistles off beyond the harbor. And you've got the sharp, pungent scent of sweet decay in the still air so thick with humidity.
And there in the thinning understory, a little red squirrel, scampering here and there in tiny circuits, running with seed clusters, pausing on a fallen limb to nibble, dashing back again, returning to the limb. Over and over. Driven. The picture of OCD.
Above me, a couple chickadees flit by, talking back and forth about meager pickin's. And somewhere at the edge of sound, up the watery hill: the faint but insistent calls of crows.
* * *
Later this morning, I watch as two herring gulls and three crows scramble to dine on something in the roadway out front. Traffic is light, but the birds (especially the gulls) are vociferous and determined. What cars do pass have to brake or veer—two SUVs steer off into the shoulder to miss the gulls—as these birds have one-track minds. Makes me wonder what they're after. (But not enough to walk down to see.)
* * *
Brief, damp afternoon has the red squirrel, the fog whistles, and more chickadees.
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Bird Report is an intermittent record of what's outside my window in Rockport, Maine, USA (44°08'N latitude, 69°06'W longitude), and vacinity. —Brian Willson
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