Morning Observations – A Dawn Log Feb 25, 2025
It is 6:18 AM. The eastern sky glows orange, fading into deep blue as dawn unfolds. I sit on the open porch, bundled up against the calm 27°F morning. On the southeastern horizon, a sliver of an orange moon lingers, rising an hour before the sun. The sky is clear, and the silhouettes of trees stand dark against the glowing horizon.
This morning, I decided to document what I hear and see as the sun rises. The bird feeder in front of the porch is freshly filled.
The earliest sounds are those of traffic on Highway 87—people already in motion, caught in the world of work.
6:28 AM – A few turkeys gobble to the south, reminding me that a flock has settled on the prairie planting, feasting on the oats left from the cover crop. Several cars pass, including one I recognize—my neighbor heading to the plant nursery where she works. Greenhouse preparations must be underway.
A pheasant and a crow call out, their squawks distinct. The wing-whistle of mourning doves signals their landing on the driveway—the first birds to arrive at the feeder. Though barely visible in the dim light, their dark forms contrast against the gravel now exposed after yesterday’s 48°F thaw melted the snow. Three doves stand motionless in a group, not yet feeding—perhaps exchanging morning greetings?
6:35 AM – The light has grown, and the sky has brightened enough to nearly erase the moon. To the north, a dog barks. A group of swans lets out their soft, muted honks—likely checking in with one another after a night’s rest on the open waters of Wolf Creek.
My fingers grow cold, so I alternate between bare hands and my yellow work gloves, still carrying the faint smell of gasoline from working on the tractor. Two male pheasants call from the deep grass of the orchard. We’ve counted about a half dozen, both male and female, who frequent the driveway for sunflower seeds.
6:41 AM – The small-town maintenance truck rumbles eastward. Yesterday, we noticed crews cutting dead trees along 285th Avenue, clearing potential hazards before they could fall into the road.
The truck meets the school bus, flashing past on its westbound route to pick up children. The same bus has traveled Evergreen Avenue for 75 years—since the 1950s, when it used to stop for us. With the school bus comes a surge of traffic—pickups and cars, workers coming and going, starting or ending their day. The background is filled with the steady calls of swans, crows, and pheasants.
6:54 AM – I set up the video camera to capture the sunrise and the first birds at the feeder—though none have arrived yet.
7:02 AM – The sun is fully up, but I missed the shot. The camera ran out of memory, and by the time I replaced the card, the moment had passed. In the process, I also startled the first finches of the morning as they arrived with the sunrise.
The squirrels have begun chattering. Now that it’s fully light, I can see the winter debris—twigs, sunflower hulls, and leaves—that had been hidden beneath the snow. In the deep grass of the orchard, some snow remains, but the yard is bare except for the piles left by shoveling and plowing.
The sun glares directly into my eyes, rising over a sky now a brilliant shade of blue. A single white streak of cloud runs north to south—perhaps the remnants of a jet trail, but wider and softened.
There is not a breath of wind.
7:08 AM – A swan honks overhead, flying northwest—likely heading toward breakfast in the newly thawed corn and soybean stubble, where melting snow has left shallow frozen ponds.
Yesterday, I spent much of the day at the Cushing Museum. Several friends stopped by to offer their condolences for Margo, and we passed the time visiting.
7:15 AM – The morning is now alive with sound—familiar calls, but more frequent, more insistent. Traffic has picked up as well.
With the sun fully risen, I decide to walk across the farm prairie to the pond. Yesterday, the ground would have been muddy, but now it’s frozen—firm beneath my boots, crunching softly where patches of snow remain.
