Date: 6/13/20 7:38 am
From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...>
Subject: [VTBIRD] June 13, 2020: Coyote Hollow, Thetford Center
5:17 a.m. 49 degrees, wind WNW 2 mph. Sky: a moveable feast of color and
shape; unevenly overcast and amorphous with blushes of pink in the east,
congestion and less colorful in the west; eastern sky morphs to
cotton-balls and gauze, which slide past a half-moon; fractures and
separates as time goes on. Mistless dawn. On the pond: duck trail through a
veneer of pollen. No sign of duck, which shelters in the wetlands. Lone
green frog twangs; needs to be tuned.

Proclamations: Nashville warbler loud and clear; black-throated blue not as
loud, not as clear; ovenbird, yellowthroat, red-eyed video, swamp sparrow.
Shameless chestnut-sided warbler sings right in front of me; I can almost
touch him; an altogether beautiful bird—yellow crown, black mask and
mustache, white throat, chest, and belly, chestnut sides, wings and back
streaked black and white. A veery, volume turned down, spins a subtle
version of his song, soft and distant but still grand. Robin, possibly the
very same one I watched yesterday, searches the road; finds another smashed
June bug . . . swallows and blinks.

Every morning's walk is deliciously different, each a line in an endless
manuscript multi-authored by clouds, trees, streams, mammals, amphibians,
turtles, and birds. Edited by the seasons and by trends, some
surreptitious, some blatant, some unknown. A narrative influenced by time
beyond reckoning. Snakes make cameo appearances, solemn as prophets,
unspooling on the fringe. Insects may hijack a plotline, of which there are
many . . . for a spell. Narrative threads, like cloudscapes, unstable,
ever-evolving. Things too small to describe may have already composed the
ending. Every valley is an ongoing tale. I see such a *very *small part of
my valley's improbable and dependable details; and no two people could
*ever* read this day or this valley (any valley) quite the same. What makes
this manuscript worthwhile, what tethers me to these walks, besides the
fact I'm part of the story, is the predictability of change. An
inexhaustible commodity. The only constant in a constantly unpredictable

On the road: A piece of luna moth wing, pink and pale green, like heaven
and Earth.
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