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Sundown |
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The declarations of crows punctuate the morning—a warm one for a change. I don't care what the chemists say, the gentle change of solid water into its liquid state seems to me perfectly sublime. A starling clucks and razzes from a bare oak limb above. One crow in particular declares its own importance in a loud, deep crow voice, as if shouting out orders to distant troops. The starling will nest this year, I'm sure. Chickadees are also here, and a mourning dove—the latter still silent. (Morning's yet too nippy, I reckon, to make woo.) Somewhere, eagles nesting. And a hint of sweetness in the air. The day started out overcast, but a wind came, and so did the sun. By late-afternoon, the dirty heaps of snow have receded noticeably. I see that last year's phoebe's nest atop the small protruding window upstairs has fallen, relatively intact. Out back, I watch a gray squirrel on a mission: first, a lope southward along the length of a fallen tree; then a couple hops to another downed trunk lying in the same direction; then westward up the hill, along yet a third; finally a deft maneuver to the base of a living pine, around back of which it disappears from view. A zig-zag woodland squirrel highway. At last the sun fades over the hill, leaving a light orange color in the sky. | |||||
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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 | |||||
©1997-2012 by 3IP |