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The first truly glorious day in May. Things started mild and cloudless, with a notable increase in morning shade, and temperatures rose to the low 70s (F) by noon. I took a walk in the woods. The air beneath the trees felt thick, held fresh, familiar smells. Warblers sang from the overstory, and solitary vireos. Despite a dry winter and early spring, the little streams ran musically in the places they must go. Consequently, black flies swarmed. Saw a squirrel. Heard what sounded like a hermit thrush in a state of alarm while ascending a wooded hill. Sun still pierces the glades more than it will in a week or two. The walk did me good. I didn't hear the mysterious bird call this morning, but I'll recognize it if I ever hear it again. Starlings run the place, seems like—I spotted a nest hole in a dead oak branch close to the back of the building, the third that I know of within a hundred feet or so. The young cry loudly and shamelessly when the parents come around. Goldfinches, house finches, robins, the cardinal. Song sparrows, a downy woodpecker, herring gulls, crows. The catbirds have gone shy—nesting, no doubt. Dandelions up everywhere. The warmth of the sun, its brightness in the west while descending, Venus's beacon winking in the trees above the hill, Jupiter not so far behind. And on the most fragrant night of the year so far, the moon waxes dependably. | |||||
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Bird Report is a discursive, intermittent record of what's outside my window in Rockport, Maine, USA (44°08'N latitude, 69°06'W longitude). —Brian Willson | |||||
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