Thursday, August 23, 630 am
Chickens call across the Village block-by-block and tree to tree. This morning is a rousing symphony conducted once again by hidden leaders. Walking down Bridge Street, one chicken crowed and crowed and kept on crowing. No clouds. Bright sun.
A quiet morning. Ducks stand on the boat launch ramp engaged in morning clean up of feathers. One duck takes a bath by splashing itself with water and then shakes itself off. After cleaning up, ducks tuck their head under their wing and take a nap. I watch ducks swimming through the river creating a wake in the still water.
Not a raft or a fishing boat in the water. Twenty runners cross the bridge. I hear the chortle of a Great Blue Heron somewhere hidden near the riverbank.