Date: 4/10/26 6:27 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] 10 April 2026: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), WRJ
5:50 a.m. (twenty-four minutes before sunrise). Thirty-three degrees. Wind
out of the south-southeast at three miles per hour, gusting to eight. A
brilliant half-moon hangs low in the southeast, a fading tribute to the
imaginary cusp between night and day, between winter and spring. Here for a
moment—a silver half coin—then …
A line of purplish clouds gathers behind the New Hampshire hills. Then
brushstrokes of color—rose and tangerine—cross an otherwise immaculate sky.
An impeccable morning—feels like spring, looks like spring, sounds like
spring.
Red maple buds are swollen and about to open, a red haze along the edge of
somber woods. Within the hemlock shadows, a hermit thrush harmonizes with
himself—the richest, most ethereal voice, the promise of an April morning.
In a grove on the hillside, a stream bound for the White River purls. I
pause and listen and listen and listen to the thrush and to the wash of
water. What else can I do in the immensity of a new day? Thrush and stream,
bird and water, in agreement with the calendar. The sweet spot of sunrise.
The sky brightens, lumen by lumen.
A crow in the crown of a roadside maple supervises the sun. Black feathers
glisten in vestal light. It looks down at me and caws, following me with
its eyes, head slightly turning. Never stops staring. Never stops cawing.
Dark bird with a bright agenda. It keeps calling long after I pass.
At the top of the hill, in the northeast corner of the pond, off the
southeast side of the road, masses of wood frog eggs litter the shallows—a
hundred clusters, maybe more. Thousands upon thousands of dark embryos,
dots in amorphous, water-swollen jelly sacs, tiny solar collectors
entrusted with the next generation. Last evening, the frogs chorused. Now
they lie buried under a blanket of drowned leaves, reticent as rock,
waiting for the day to warm—for March to turn to April again.
*Vernal ensemble, thirty-one species: *pileated, delirious laughter; hairy
woodpecker; yellow-bellied sapsucker, arrhythmic, unbalanced drumming;
phoebe*, *calling from the corners of every off-road outbuilding; robins,
everywhere and noisy; hermit thrush, one bird, one song from the shadow
where the owl hides; bluebird; blue jay; crow; raven, proclaiming; mourning
doves; blue jays; white-breasted and red-breasted nuthatches; chickadees,
always cheerful (they have a lot to be cheerful about—it's a five-star
morning); tufted titmice; red-winged blackbirds; cowbirds; Carolina wren,
ever so loud for a tiny bird; brown creeper; golden-crowned kinglet; purple
finches, flame-colored voices; house finches, not so bright, not so
musical; song sparrow; white-throated sparrow (truncated song); fox
sparrows, like Mr. Natural, just passing through; cardinal; goldfinches,
clouds of awakening yellow—aerial dandelions; pine siskins; juncos,
trilling (nothing to confuse them with…yet); cedar waxwings, whispering in
the aspens.
