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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The sun burns through high clouds. A gleam in the stream from a clump of sedge where spray has made an ice-fingered claw open to the sky. …

Bright sun, deep blue sky. A Canada goose flying over the mountain all by itself honks anyway. A small spider runs across my coat. …

Warm sun on new snow. From behind the house, the high-pitched whistling of waxwings. The porch roof's last, snaggletoothed icicle lets go. …

Shutting my eyes alternately against the glare, I discover that the trees' shadows are only blue in my right eye; they're gray in my left. …

Sun shining through a flurry. Two chickadees weave madly through a barberry bush, the pursued bird trying to enlist the thorns on its side. …

Blue sky. The snow has retreated to the northwest-facing hillside under the shelter of the trees. A train's whistle made wavery by the wind. …

It's in the 40s and noisy with the sound of trucks. Each tree stands in a small circle of melted ground like a bear balancing on a unicycle. …

I strain to hear the waking birds, but sound is out of the west: cars, trucks, winter tires—the fossil-fueled Fat Tuesday that never ends. …

Just past sunrise, the powerline is a tongue of light off through the woods. A heavy contrail drifts toward the sun like a deepening frown. …

Gray sky at sunrise. The porcupine is late; I watch it coming from a long way off. It pauses to chew on the porch—no taste like home! …

The Morning Porch/Patio