Date: 9/8/24 5:15 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] 08 September 2024: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), WRJ
5:22 a.m. 47 degrees, wind W 5 mph, gusting to 15. Raindrops fall from
dancing leaves. Mars and Jupiter, brightly overhead, keep the owls'
company—while the moon, a sliver well below the horizon, presides over cod
and halibut. The magic of sunrise: the dark line of clouds hugging New
Hampshire's eastern rim turns purple-rose and gray, luminously highlit
below the overexposed lemon sky, 2-F stops brighter than the middle tone.
But ... magic isn't permanent: what's washed-out yellow gives way to
washed-out blue; purple-rose gives way to off-white; and the cloud line
dissolves into daylight. Owls give way to crows. The voice of the wind
gives way to geese broadcasting above the White River, a musical wedge
headed south. Nine species of birds in order of appearance: barred owl,
kibbitzing American crow, northern cardinal, song sparrow, Canada goose,
black-capped chickadee, dark-eyed junco, downy woodpecker (daylight comes
late to cavity roosters), and blue jay, gathering acorns around the barn
and sunflower seeds below the deck.
Across an unmowed meadow, New England asters bloom—purple and yellow
flowers pathing the way for trees—and plumes of goldenrod. Milkweed pods
droop like small, green bananas. Where are the monarchs?
Last night, a pair of owls conversed in the velvet, one lower on the
hillside, the other higher. In bed, windows open, I lay midway between
their discourse. Back and forth, the owls duetted—hollow, dog-like barks
(rhythmic, repetitive, loud), asthmatic wheezes, caterwauls, and
high-pitched, hair-raising screeches like a soundtrack from *Night of the
Living Dead*. I lay in bed and listened intently as my sleep unraveled.
