Thursday February 26, 2009

Dave Bonta February 26, 2009

I keep hearing fragments of song—winter wren, bluebird, song sparrow—and the usual tight flock of siskins in a walnut tree going zzzzzzip.

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Thick fog: soundproofing against all but the closest chirps. A nuthatch descends a locust trunk, does an about-face, and scuttles back up. …

As the temperature climbs above freezing, the icy surface of the snowpack loses its sheen, clouding over like the eye of a dead fish. …

Bright sun for the first time in days. The wild rhododendron up in the woods shines like a city of glass seen from an airplane window. …

Cold weather has finally returned. Small birds are bathing in the stream despite the iron wind, shaking themselves dry in a dogwood bush. …

Weak sun. The delicate shattering of icicles dropping from the roof. The neighbor's rooster calls hoarsely, as if out of practice. …

Buffeted by wind, I close my eyes and focus on the sun's warmth as the archipelago of drifted snow rearranges itself around my chair. …

Chickadees are geniuses at staying busy. I watch the usual flock of five investigate the lilac as if they'd never seen it in their lives. …

Pileated woodpeckers forage on all sides, hammering, drumming, cackling, whooping. I feel as if I'm surrounded by a troupe of insane clowns. …

Gray sky. A gray breast feather floats down and lands on the snow. Ten minutes later, a sharp-shinned hawk appears in the big maple. …

The snow-plastered chairs are huddled at the end of the porch like sheep, and the end-table has lost its top. I pull two hoods over my hat. …

I keep hearing fragments of song—winter wren, bluebird, song sparrow—and the usual tight flock of siskins in a walnut tree going zzzzzzip. …

It's snowing. A pileated woodpecker drums twice in Margaret's yard: a resonant timpanum. Then sleet: rapid brushes on a taut skin. …

The Morning Porch