Sunday, April 12, 2026, 25* F, 70% RH, 0558
After the dogs had gone out, come in, eaten a biscuit, returned to sleep; after I filled two glasses with water, just as I sat at my desk, in the corner of my window, the sun began to rise. Earlier, standing on the deck watching, listening, the sky went through her morning iterations displaying colors, prelude to sun. As the sun moved higher through the trees birds sang faintly: American Robin, Brown Creeper, Hermit Thrush which I dubbed the flute bird. Still, too much cold, too much frost, for spring peepers. Last year, peepers were speaking April 11. I have a recording.
Though I know the script for morning, it varies, it amazes.
Photo: LJ Austin
