Storms yesterday. The smell of wet dog in the living room while I write. I’m up and going by 6:30, but my husband has already been out and come back. The sky is low and gray but the new leaves are brilliant in every tree.

The birds are clamorous this morning. I only know a few of their calls. Last week, I learned that starlings are mimics. One sat on the branch of the massive and venerable maple that would be cut down a few days later. We watched it scream like a red-tail hawk, then fluff up its feathers with apparent satisfaction.