Tag Archives: pileated woodpecker

Morning full of the cries of woodpeckers...

By Dave Bonta | Published April 15, 2011 at 10:45 am

Morning full of the cries of woodpeckers—part ululation, part rusty hinge. Like the sounds the trees make in a winter wind, speeded up.

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To the south, the hysterical-sounding...

By Dave Bonta | Published February 13, 2011 at 10:51 am

To the south, the hysterical-sounding whoops of a pileated woodpecker. To the north, the rapid taps of a downy, that tachycardia.

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The snowpack glows in the soft, mid...

By Dave Bonta | Published January 15, 2011 at 9:26 am

The snowpack glows in the soft, mid-morning light. A dog barks in the valley. The resonant knocks of a woodpecker opening a new door.

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I pause at the door, coffee in hand...

By Dave Bonta | Published December 16, 2010 at 9:13 am

I pause at the door, coffee in hand: six juncos decorate the dead cherry, fat, motionless. A pileated woodpecker cackles at the wood’s edge.

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Dawn. In absolute silence, a pileated...

By Dave Bonta | Published November 20, 2010 at 7:18 am

Dawn. In absolute silence, a pileated woodpecker hitches its way up a locust trunk, silhouette pivoting like a pawl on an invisible ratchet.

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Just past daybreak, a pileated woodpecker...

By Dave Bonta | Published October 25, 2010 at 7:22 am

Just past daybreak, a pileated woodpecker whinnies, a nuthatch tuts, a crow croaks, and a gray squirrel clatters through gray branches.

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A succession of anxious or querulous...

By Dave Bonta | Published September 19, 2010 at 7:10 am

A succession of anxious or querulous calls—nuthatch, crow, Cooper’s hawk, pileated woodpecker—until sunrise reddens the western ridge.

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I watch the sunbeams’ slow drift...

By Dave Bonta | Published June 8, 2010 at 9:26 am

I watch the sunbeams’ slow drift of mites and motes, entranced, until a shadow cackles: pileated woodpecker resplendent in his tribal crest.

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A pileated woodpecker explores a fallen...

By Dave Bonta | Published May 29, 2010 at 8:20 am

A pileated woodpecker explores a fallen tree in the meadow, the scarlet arrow of his crest appearing and disappearing in the dame’s-rocket.

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So clear, even the mourning dove sounds...

By Dave Bonta | Published May 20, 2010 at 8:33 am

So clear, even the mourning dove sounds joyful. Muffled thuds of a pileated in a dead tree, knocking—as Rumi would say—from the inside.

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