Dave Bonta

Against dark clouds, the white blossoms of shadbush massed at the woods’ edge. A vole breaks cover in the yard: a gray streak.

‪The buzzing dog-fights of carpenter bees competing for access to the porch’s old wood. The first tiger swallowtail flutters into the yard.‬

‪Sunny and cool. Two crows drive a third out of the pines with a low-in-the-throat noise that would sound threatening in any language.‬

‪High in the lilac, a squirrel wedges a freshly dug-up walnut between three branches, descends, climbs back, retrieves it and carries it off.‬

A red-bellied woodpecker’s flight like a fast oarsman, far-apart wingbeats propelling it through the blue. It disappears into a tall locust.

Red maple trees blossom on their own schedules. The branches I watched the moon slip through like a slow fish last night are now ablaze.

In the shadow of the wicker chair, a paper wasp walks in circles like a broken wind-up toy. I sit in the too-warm sun reading about the sun.