Date: 11/21/24 6:20 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] 21 November 2024: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), WRJ
6:48 a.m. (three minutes before sunrise). Wind East 5 miles per hour,
gusting 17. Dark and dank, prolonged twilight. Fog servers the summit of
the Hill and, across the Connecticut River, hides Moose and Smarts
mountains, Mount Cube, and distant Moosilaukee. Across the White River,
tendrils of mist slowly rise from the creases between corrugated hills,
like campfire smoke or dragon's breath, lingering in spots before merging
into river fog—a mutiny of moisture. The ground is damp, and the leaves are
not so brittle. A bar of whitish light cleaves the east. A blush in the
southeast. Both are ephemeral, lost to the gloom like last night's dream.
The valley and its hills are waiting for rain (long overdue). Ten species
of birds (all the usual suspects): mourning dove, hairy woodpecker, common
raven, common crow, blue jay, American robin, black-capped chickadee,
tufted titmouse, northern cardinal, and dark-eyed junco.
Raven carrying food glides over the meadow, wings arced, feet dangling like
landing gear. Curves east. Slows down. On the far side of the meadow, the
raven settles on a birch branch, bone-white and bouncy, a silhouette in the
mist. Eats breakfast in peace (and solitude).
Loney robin calls from the crown of a sugar maple—sharp *clucks*.
Nobody answers.
Fourteen doves, wings in conversation, settle into a larch ... and remain
settled (bumps on branches). Blue jay and a hairy woodpecker join the
doves. A little ADHD, neither bird stays put. Jay hops from branch to
branch, upright, crest erect, calling; the woodpecker explores the trunk,
picking and probing, gently drilling—its bright red crown an ember in the
dullness.
Walking the Hill on a dull morning becomes a revelation in bird nests: a
robin nest in a maple, cemented by mud; a vireo nest, a tiny cup suspended
from twigs; and a gray squirrel nest below the top of an oak, an armful of
leaves called a *drey.* Squirrel sleeps in, leaving a damp, late November
morning to unfold on its own.
