I love these raw moist dawns with
a thousand birds you hear but can’t
quite see in the mist.
My old alien body is a foreigner
struggling to get into another country.
The loon call makes me shiver.
Back at the cabin I see a book
and am not quite sure what that is.
Jim Harrison, “Another Country”, Dead Man’s Float
It is early autumn in Humptulips County, and the fog has returned to grace at least some of our days. It slips into the occasional morning like a hesitant visitor to a neighborhood bar trying to determine whether its ambience suits her. Because of her shy smile, you know, even if she yet doesn’t, that she will become a regular within a week or two.
While we wait for her to make up her mind, our bird population works at its seasonal transition. Adult goldfinches have already gone, leaving the nettle feeder half full until such time as I choose to empty and clean it, a task that awaits the elimination of all uncertainty as to their continued presence; all that seems to remain of them are newly fledged goldfinches drinking their fill from the depressions in our tarmac. Nuthatches, juncos, and chickadees have returned to seasonal dominance, augmented by our resident flock of ever-voracious Steller’s jays who  anxiously decorate the green boughs of our pines whenever we choose, after suitable intervals to protect the sanctity of our pocketbook, to put out  whole, unshelled peanuts; by the harsh, staccato calls of the crows as they defend their territory or exercise their perpetual, innate curiosity; by the bright red splash of the flicker’s underwings; by the occasional star turns taken by our pair of mated pileated woodpeckers, or by those of their new offspring who has grown too large to be fed by them but remains too awkward for us to be assured of his or her continued existence.
In this season, I sometimes go outside to our front porch in the hour just before dawn whenever the fog is present, still in my pajamas and before I make my breakfast. I try not to wake Helen whenever I do so, but this is much harder than it sounds. Our front door sticks and must be yanked hard to be opened, especially on such moist mornings. I could fix it I suppose, but the opening ritual has become an essential part of our daily routine and I worry that the repair might approximate a sin.
Once outside, I listen for the first hesitant birdsong that will swell into the grateful chorus that will transform the fog into a living essence infused with the mystery of joy. And when this transformation is complete, I will be as if blindfolded, listening to Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus through noise cancelling headphones that block everything but song, and I will join their  ecstasy over having been granted yet one more morning to welcome.
