Now, on a more sedate note. Two weeks ago, we went on a fall vacation up to the Mendocino woodlands. It was a good week to go. This is what it was like.
For a few moments, as the fog fell away to reveal a blue ground, the valley held its own concert: an interlacing of croaky bassoon notes in 4/4 time, high squeals interspersed with cheet-wheet-wheet's, a run of knockety-knockety-knockety's like coconut-shell horse hooves, and a rapid kakakaka-keer! kakakakaka-keer! Though usually the names of birds will flash or rumble through my mind, for this short time, I could not identify the singers, or even if they bore feathers or fur; I could only listen to the songs, the tapestries of sound.