Date: 8/7/26 6:15 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] 07 August 2026: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), WRJ
5:27 a.m., eighteen minutes before sunrise. Seventy-two degrees, humid and
sticky, wind northwest at two miles per hour, gusting—loosely speaking—to
three. A hermit thrush sings from the stuffy shadows, sweet but faint.
*The morning news*: three bats, first of the summer, conscripted by the
season, head south, dining and migrating at once. Above the meadow, beyond
the deck, they coil, curve, circle, spiral. Slow, erratically smooth. Upright,
toes pointed down as though pirouetting across a stage. They seine insects
from the fertile sky. I’m their audience of one, the sheltered thrush their
accompaniment.
Hummingbirds up early ... feeding and chasing. Feeder to feeder. Vine
honeysuckles to pink begonia. If they don't stop, I may never start uphill.
Dawn on the road. Night in the woods.
Kaleidoscopic heavens: an elastic sky. At first, overcast and bright. Spots
and streaks of rose in the northeast, mostly above Smarts Mountain. Pale
peach in the north. Then, clouds condense. Blue holes. White fluff, as
white as the tip of a fox's tail, fringed and frosted by the sun. A single
beam of sunshine—a searchlight. Thrush in the limelight, still singing;
bats elsewhere.
Mist rising and drifting above the White River and the Connecticut River.
Thin and frayed. As the sky opens, the moon appears, a pot-bellied
crescent, XXL.
5:26 a.m.: Robin in the woods crooning.
5:47 a.m.: Carolina wren, hidden in the lilacs, screams, intensely loud for
a small bird. Not to be outdone, across the road, a house wren cuts loose:
a staccato burst, a machine-gun song. Non-stop wrens, two species, two
songs. Sunrise discord.
Five minutes later, a catbird whines. Then, an outlying pewee salutes the
combustible sky, a sad song announcing summer's departure.
*Along the Way Home: *red-eyed vireo (subdued for a redeye); black-capped
chickadee; tufted titmouse; both nuthatches, red- and white-breasted;
common raven, headed north, disgorging song; gang of American crows in
crown of aspens, conversing loudly (I'm drawn over to their discussion ...
not an owl or a hawk to be found; blue jay eating blueberries; common
yellowthroat, the only warbler singing; song sparrow; chipping sparrow;
eastern towhee; eastern phoebe; cedar waxwing, seven, in the naked crown of
a slowly dying maple, take note of the neighborhood—across the road,
rock-hard highbush cranberries ripen; American goldfinch; dark-eyed junco
(still incubating in potted begonia).
Twenty-two species in all, a waning serenade.
*Bear Schedule:* Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, while I watched the
Yankees play the Cardinals, a black bear as big as a Buick came up onto my
deck, threading carefully around the outdoor furniture. Stood on hind legs
and reached over the railing for the sunflower feeder. Bear prefers the
middle innings, when the starting pitchers are tiring.
You can't help but hear an adult black bear on the back deck, ten feet off
the ground. The heaviest of footfalls. A one-mammal marching band. I slid
open the screen door. Bears don't flee like the morning squirrels. It
dropped back from the railing to all fours. Looked at me quizzically, then
walked (slowly) off the deck.
"You don't belong up here," I said.
Bear paused on the lawn. It huffed several times, a low, earthy sound—more
rumble than roar. I gathered the feeders in for the night, then huffed
back, a ragged imitation. The bear considered me for a moment, then drifted
off into the forest, threading carefully but heavily … not exactly
Bojangles.
And I returned downstairs to another Yankee disappointment.
