Fog drapes like sheer fabric. No sound. No sun. No moon. No birds sitting on the fence. I walk down the ramp with the three leaving the door open. Perhaps the deer flies have lost their way. Nothing bothers us. His transplanted apple tree has brown leaves. The stream is muddy in one place; as if something has been digging. A slug looks out of place on vinyl siding. How did he get almost to a window? A spider web spans half a flowerpot catching dew. Ruger sleeps blocking my path to reheat coffee. I don’t disturb him.

     It is lighter now than when we were out at 0400 yet it is darker than usual for this time of day. Sun is not seen, nor any piece of moon. One Blue Jay squawks. Zayne watches the deck, the door, the red truck, follows when I ask “do you want to go in?”. I try to shoo deer flies away without hitting Ruger in the face.

     An hour after our first outing, after the sky lightened and the moon remained, birds were heard: American Crow, Mourning Dove, Red-eyed Vireo, American Goldfinch, White-breasted Nuthatch. A Hummingbird hovered near the fence, spider threads woven through chain links. Sky blue, clouds of tire tracked snow. Disturbed, a moth flies as I lean over the railing. Pollen coated, the receding stream carries shadows. Blueberries ripen.

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     Only traffic noise greets us. Sun shines through white sky becoming blue. Zayne does not linger. I do not walk down the ramp to find a picture. Zsolt comes in last waits for his biscuit. Coffee drips into a red cup.

     Sun, piece of moon together in blue sky. No clouds. Landscape drip drying. No breeze but there must have been last night, perhaps intermittent wind shoved rain against siding, into tiny squares of window screens. Inside, we heard none of it. Years ago, Bruce and I listened from the camp loft as rain fell on the roof, looking through a tiny window from a mattress on the floor as the stream burbled. Now, I can’t climb a ladder.

     Surprise – it rained last night; something not in the forecast. Not enough rain to leave bowls or wash more land through boulders. A drink for the leaves, the blueberries, the grass, enough rain to keep dust from spinning in a wind. Fog may descend by the next time I look. Sky white without sun, without blue. No birds sing. No traffic noise carries.

     Fog changes the landscape, colors the sky, both obscure the sun that sends no rays, is not bright, is not seen. Like snowflakes unable to melt, confetti from the shredder lies on a shelf in front of bare trees in winter, a watercolor next to the book “Transformation.”

     Sky blue. Clouds white. A sprinkling of red leaves among the green. No breeze. Birds converse: Blue Jay, Downy Woodpecker, Red-eyed Vireo, Black-and-White Warbler, Brown Creeper, Eastern Wood Pewee, Tufted Titmouse. Spider string, one, from open green umbrella to wooden railing.

     White clouds drift through blue sky. No Ovenbird greets. No traffic noise. No crow down the road. No spider strings. A Northern Flicker, a Wood Thrush, a Hermit Thrush. I brush a long-legs spider from house siding. There aren’t as many as last year. Some rain overnight. Sun making an orange appearance. The three are not interested in things they don’t see moving.

     Curtain rod brackets out of place on my desk, step stool by the window. Silence greets as we step outside. There is dew in places, not on the deck but atop objects there. Earlier, during prayers, I watched a breeze tousle leaves. Nothing moves now. In the distance, a crow heard, fading. The three look up as the gate latches behind me. I see one yellow flower I do not walk towards. One blueberry bush barren. Sky, a solid cloud.

     Merlin listened for over ten minutes to hear four birds: Eastern Wood-Pewee, Red-eyed Vireo, Brown Creeper, American Goldfinch. Sky like white cloth washed in a muddy stream. No sun. No traffic noise. No rooster down the road. A morning requiring lights even with curtains open.