Date: 3/10/26 7:02 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] 10 March 2026: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), WRJ
6:39 a.m., thirty-one minutes before sunrise. Thirty-four degrees. Wind
south, three miles an hour, gusting to six. One long cloud low over Jericho
Hill in the north; otherwise, the sky is a single clear thought, edge to
edge. A polished half-moon, left side exposed, as I pause in the road and
meet it—a Democratic moon, *third-quarter, *no more a quarter than a full
moon is a half. Like everything else, its name depends on who is looking. A
distant sphere flattens to a coin; why not use the same loose arithmetic to
break it into fractions? There must be a reason, but it hovers just beyond
reach.
Citrus light rims the New Hampshire skyline. The lone cloud above Jericho
Hill blushes, loosens, unthreads. Then nothing but clarity: clear, then
clearer still.
Snow embankments fold inward as the road widens. The snowpack sinks into
itself, gives up its depth. Subnivean tunnels carry water. To avoid the
flow, mice cross the surface now, their bodies barely dimpling the crust.
Intermittent streams awaken, fill, gurgle, hurry toward the swollen White
River, rising in its stone cradle.
6:43 a.m. Fourteen crows, a black company, head northwest. Anything but
silent, a jamboree in advance of the sun.
6:50 a.m. A crow in the maple’s crown, overseeing the rising sap, answers
the crowd, then launches after them like a cartoon character left behind.
6:52 a.m. Eight other crows head northeast. A fracas in the air. Crows
can’t fly without speaking. Born to broadcast—loud, so the world can hear.
6:56 a.m. A small flock of eastern bluebirds and American robins decorates
the top of an aspen. A chattering ensemble, their breasts catch sunlight I
cannot see.
6:58 a.m. Tangerine light gathers along the edge of Moose Mountain. Another
crow, late off the branch, heads northwest. *Where did everybody go*?
7:00 a.m. A pair of crows—clearly a pair—wing tip to wing tip, well behind
the crowd, flies northwest. Destination unknown to me.
7:02 a.m. A robin in the maple’s crown, crooning, sap rising under his
feet. Awash in sunlight, his breast glows brick red. First singing robin in
nearly half a year. He joins chickadees and titmice, who have been singing
for months.
Blue jays scream and veer to the feeders. Nuthatches—both species—call from
the woods. Three mourning doves arrow over the road, small heads, long
tails. Dark-eyed juncos work the ground beneath an arch of rhododendron
limbs, leaves unfurling. American goldfinches and pine siskins, sibilant
whispers above the meadow and in the roadside aspens. A lone mockingbird,
singing.
*Department of Hope:* male goldfinches brighten, an unmistakable yellow
bloom on the chest. Although male chickadees have been singing for several
months, they look the same (to me). While I wait for woodcock and phoebes
to arrive, goldfinches mutate by the day, cap and wings darkening. The
yellow of the neck feathers spreads, igniting back and breast. A
monumental—and personal—transition from one season to another. A common
bird. A small, enduring crossing from one season to another. breathtaking,
Hope itself, whether snow comes tomorrow or not.
