Date: 11/5/26 6:01 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] 05 November 2026: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), WRJ
6:11 a.m. (nineteen minutes before sunrise). Fifty (muggy) degrees.
South-southeast wind at four miles per hour, gusting to seven. Heaven on
the move (literally).
*Pouring Over the Minutia of the Sunrise: *Above and across the White
River, heavy, pink-tinged clouds head north, cleaving the summit of Jericho
Hill. Almost all of the New Hampshire ridgeline dissolves behind ambitious
clouds. Moon, a bright sliver, hangs high in the west, beyond bright
Jupiter and faint Mars. All three appear, disappear, then return before
blinking out altogether. Celestial peek-a-boo.
Mist thickens and rises. Clouds lower, brushing the top of Hurricane Hill,
trailing long lines of moisture into the river valleys. For an enchanted
moment, sunrise: an orange orb above New Hampshire, molten light threading
the naked limbs. In an oak, a gray squirrel chatters in the damp woods.
Somewhere beyond my sightline, a blue jay calls, a single rising note, a
whistle like a broadwing.
Above the hill's north slope, four crows, well spaced, head west. High
above the meadow. Unified by calls. The nearest veers around the roadside
maples, drawing a tangle of limbs between us. Seen from behind, all four
look like they're rowing across the morning.
Most of the oaks and beeches have shed most of their leaves. Perhaps ten or
fifteen percent still cling to twigs, twirling in the breeze (just enough
to screen a daydreaming owl). A few let go and spiral above the road in
lazy, erratic patterns. Watching a leaf let go is like watching waves break
... a small enchantment. Back and forth. Slowly spinning. Suddenly changing
course. Outfielders could hone their skills by tracking and trying to catch
falling leaves—a November pastime with no certain outcome.
Beneath blankets of leaves, field crickets call in fitful whispers—autumn's
dying embers.
*Among the Birds: *Dark-eyed juncos flit in and out of the thickets, white
outer tail feathers flashing. One pauses in a lilac, chips and chips and
chips. Notes on a damp bough. Black-capped chickadees, everywhere and
entertaining. One pauses in a lilac (above the junco) and hammers open a
sunflower seed. Then departs for the woods to hide the morsel. Several
more, faces in the crowd, seek out hiding places for seeds in the
nearby hardwoods; another sings a hopeful tune at the edge of a storm.
American robin in the highbush cranberries, a nonstop harvest. A flock of
cedar waxwings, maybe ten. A red-bellied woodpecker, belly-aching. A downy
woodpecker, bashful on an aspen trunk—soft wood, soft pecks. A
triumphant pileated in the hemlocks fractures the morning with disembodied
screams. Nothing is louder, nor more persistent. Tufted titmice.
White-breasted nuthatches wander the trunks. A brown creeper whispers.
A pair of common ravens barrel-roll, playing the game of flight. Never lose
direction. Never sink. They seem to fly for the sheer joy of it. Does a
larger brain leave more room for joy? Chickadees go from point A to point
B. Ravens take the long way through the morning.
*An answer is invariably the parent of a great family of new questions.*
John
Steinbeck
