Rather than watching a field emerge from night, I watch the sky through leaves turn up the light. I left the fields in Pennsylvania. I left the mountains too, some mornings with ribbons of fog now seen only in photos. I still have a window, a desk. I still write. There are deer here though not the gatherings and none this frosted morning. A White-throated Sparrow speaks soft staccato. Spiders must have found wintering places. I switched on the furnace as coffee dripped into a slate blue cup. Moon last night. Sun will be over the horizon soon. I see the orange, the sparkle.

Zip your coat, pull up the hood, put on your gloves. Sun, white as a light bulb will stay awhile to warm us. Not just a hum, traffic clearly heard. American Crow. Dew. Blue sky. Behind the blinds, condensation on windows. Moon last night, no trace this morning.

     Sky more white than blue. Sun still sleeping. No clouds. Traffic noise. No crickets. Blue Jay. White-throated Sparrow. Acorns falling. Dew. Gold leaves join the computation of red, of green. Yesterday geese proclaiming. Last night, stars. I had to lean against the railing to keep from falling.

     Clouds not quite white, disperse, give way to blue sky. Sun may appear later, further East than the top corner of my window where dark blue clouds imitate mountains. Traffic hums. Crickets, a few, chirp. No breeze. Stream collects more leaves. No birds speak. Zsolt lifts his head with a look that says, “You didn’t just say it’s time to come in. Did you?”

     Sky blue. Clouds like snow on an uneven field. Sun spreads white light. Northern Flicker. Ratio of red to green leaves rearranging. Stiffness creeping into fingers. The three, noses to ground scent the unseen. Crane fly clings to vinyl siding. Dew. Swept away, yesterday, spider strings on my window.

     Eastern horizon orange before 0500. Sensor lights turn on as the three walk past, can’t see beyond them shining in my eyes. One doesn’t turn on. Sky blue, clouds absent. Sun well above the trees. Need gloves. Ruger inspects as I wait for the idling red truck to leave before releasing the giants. American Goldfinch, Blue Jay, Hairy Woodpecker.

     No orange on the horizon. No sun. Clouds gray portend foul weather; forecast disagrees. No birds. Merlin and I listened. Last night rain drowned leaves the stream gathered or washed them further downstream. Crickets. A breeze ruffles leaves. Zsolt’s ears assume their quizzical pose. Yesterday, for several minutes, a Blue Jay sat on the tractor squawking, Zayne barked in response while atop the woodpile the red squirrel posed still as stone.

     Clouds, like a traffic pileup. Stream gathers leaves. No breeze. No spiders. Hidden garden fading. Amidst the boulders, plants that never bloomed hold seeds dressed with white wings, waiting. Some days with wind the seeds like the beginning of a snowstorm, some days like an invasion of exotic flying things. Three birds: White-throated Sparrow, Brown Creeper, Blue Jay. The three bounce around me as I close the gate, ready to play, as if they hadn’t seen me for days.

     Sun lights an angle of canopy before her shape comes into view. Earlier there were sunset pink streaks on the eastern horizon. Sky blue, a canvas of various hues. Clouds not like cotton candy. Dew. No birds. No traffic hum. Yesterday, geese heard in the afternoon, the buck standing this side of the stream. He saw the buck later in the company of a doe. Coffee not as expected. Sun appears roundly viewed at an angle through two trees. Trill of a Pileated Woodpecker.

     One Blue Jay, one sentence. Wide blue sky unbroken by clouds. Sun orange, rising captured from hallway. Sleep still in my eyes, the three dreaming. Coffee dripping into a yellow cup. No long legs splay themselves on lee side of railing. No wind. Yesterday, wind gathered strength through the day undoing the blessing of Sunday’s rain. Heavy dew makes opaque car windows. I should check on the hidden garden.

     Blue Jays and American Crows herald Monday with a cacophony. Sky blue. Clouds random, fluffy. Wind shakes rain from leaves. Sun briefly. Standing in the drive searching for a morning photo, the oak tree beside the wood pile is again being raided. As I stand still, a red squirrel runs down the trunk stops atop the split wood, scampers somewhere I didn’t see. I wonder if it’s the same red squirrel that sat on the porch railing taunting the three our first year.

     We are well past the season of song, of blossoming.  A Blue Jay squawks; a Song Sparrow chips. Asthma meds long ago quelled my singing and sometimes now my speaking. No traffic hums. Sky mottled with pink. Sun rises too far East to capture from where I can stand. Leaves prepare to let go, to fall, to dance on a breeze, to gather or scatter. Yesterday a kerfuffle in an oak tree beside the wood pile. I could not determine the source, thought it might be a squirrel as leaves shook and acorns dinged a split log like a dull bell. Almost put my hand on a long legs as I reached for the ramp rail, some will live for three years. In the cool of evening on deck, Zsolt stood up as a long legs crawled near him.