Date: 7/30/20 6:16 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] July 30, 2020: Coyote Hollow, Thetford Center
5:13 a.m. 61 degrees, wind NNE 0 mph. Sky: a line or two of clouds in the south, bright everywhere else, gradually lightening lumen by lumen, as the heaven wipes sleep from its eyes. Permanent streams: emulating birdsongs both streams drying up; detectable pulse in upper; ratcheting scarcity in lower, joins the water table below the surface. Wetlands: a suggestion of ground fog, the softest of brushstrokes that thickens and spreads; a green frog, the sole voice across a vast marsh. Pond: a mist maker; the hum of crickets replaces the chatter of birds; bubbles of methane rising from the sediments gives me something to watch . . . otherwise an unmarred surface, dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta.
A great blue heron, pipe neck folded and stilt legs trailing, toes impossibly long, up in the south above the outflow, where frogs convene, wings extend and curved downward like a long, narrow umbrella. What scientists and architects call *camber*, the calling card of a mythic and ubiquitous wading bird*. *Great blue heron: the silhouette of nobility; the voice of indigestion. Mantled by mist, circling, circling, circling. As still as stone.
Morning of the hermit thrush, sweet voices electrify the gloom. I want to bottle up the song of the blueberry-voiced bird, to be preserved like summer jam; and then replayed on drizzly November mornings; thrush song rising within me, a euphoric ascendancy . . . a welcome counterpoint during a spell of bleakness. Hermit thrushes make my world a better place.