Loved this "picture" of "one last song".... Made my day!!!
On Sun, Oct 18, 2020 at 11:47 AM Ted Levin <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> 6:58 a.m. 28 degrees, wind NNW 0 mph. Sky: one mauve cloud in the west
> lords over the marsh, the remainder of the sky clean and powder blue.
> Permanent streams: upper, last twenty-four hours less impact;
> three-quarters full and singing, fed by reliable water; lower, last
> twenty-four hours more impact; noticeably less water than yesterday;
> Although still carrying a tune, fed by a less reliable water than upper.
> Wetlands: a cold air sink; heavy frost, a crystalline glaze. A world two
> F-stops overexposed. What was dark brown appears tan; what was tan appears
> eggshell; green reeds that marked the main channel appear ghostly . . .
> blanched by the hunger of the night. Alder leaves frost-rimmed and burnt.
> Pond: even the mist seems cold. Daintily, two sparrows, white-throated and
> Lincoln's, perched on the head of goldenrods, eat seeds, stems folding,
> birds bouncing.
> Along the brown road, three yellow-orange stripes, each tree-crown width,
> all maple, one red and two sugar. Leaves fell overnight, still dropping,
> straight down on a windless morning—a porous curtain closing on the season,
> leaf by leaf.
> An unseen red-shouldered hawk screams. A migrant? Crows and jays, busy and
> noisy, work desperate venues, crows the air, jays the trees. White-breasted
> nuthatches *yanking*, unseen in the woods. Chickadees being chickadees,
> cheerful birds on a frigid morning. Doves, a baker's dozen, scavenge under
> the feeder; tiny headed; rush to flight, often into the bay window. I think
> of doves as simple birds, fast, powerful fliers but *not* keen
> problem-solvers. By comparison, chickadees emerge as Einstein stand-ins.
> Along the edge of the driveway, a hermit thrush picks through a fresh crop
> of colored leaves. An October hush, a diluted version of April, when
> he threw back his head and set the valley on fire, providing two months of
> hauntingly beautiful music, flung carelessly and dispassionately as the
> wind. Now, flipping yellow leaves, flipping yellow silence. The frenzied
> pace of life subdued . . . but still a gift of watchful passion. I can't
> take my eyes off the thrush. One merciful song, please. One last song to
> endure the winter, to ward off the decay of summer.