dew

If I understand the science correctly, there's a limit to how much moisture the air can hold and therefore also a limit on how much dew can be produced. But you'd never know it this morning. The air was saturated, the windows of the house were all fogged up and the vegetation -- beaten down by the rains earlier this week -- was dripping. And so was I after pushing through the edge-of-the-marsh path which was totally overgrown with water-logged bocage, mostly Ivo and Baccharis whose branches, heavy with HO2, hung over the path and tried to bar my way. As often as I clear this path, the new growth, bent down by the pounding rain and heavy dew, constantly pushes, tilts, angles and sinks right into the path of least resistance that I have created, brushing its load of water onto my arms, legs and back. I emerge totally soaked.

There were a few birds. There are just a handful of swallows and Purple Martins still in evidence. No new warblers but at one point I had two Northern Waterthrushes in my binoculars; it's unusual to see more than one at a time; I think they're a bit territorial even when not on their breeding grounds and I suspect (judging by the loud alarm calls) that there are a few others scattered around. They will probably continue to be here for a while before moving further south. The Tupelo trees at the head of the marsh are full of Catbirds eating the ripening berries and they were joined by a couple of American Robins, a Mockingbird and a young Red-bellied Woodpecker that must have been born and raised in the vicinity.

A striking Question Mark butterfly landed on the white sideboards of the cottage soaking up some rays and showing its unusual cut-out wing pattern (it belongs to a group of butterflies known as 'anglewings'). In spite of the rain, this has been a good butterfly year.

Eric Salzman