Sunday June 07, 2009

Dave Bonta June 7, 2009

The cerulean warbler sounds rushed as always. A chipmunk watches me for ten minutes, stationed like a sentry on the rock next to the porch.

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Within the white ring of she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not, the Fibonacci spirals of yellow florets—a fly's unlikely carpet. …

The crowds of wild garlic in my yard have uncoiled their white heads and seem to peer in all directions like bewildered cranes. …

Autumn has come to the dame's-rocket in the yard, leaves turning orange and burgundy as the seedpods yellow like needle-thin fingernails. …

I fail to spot him on the branch or on the wing, this noisy vireo with an insomniac's eye—a genius at self-effacement and at holding forth. …

In the yard, the horde of wild garlic heads have begun to rise from their private ruminations and aim their long beaks together at the sky. …

The first bindweed flower has opened low to the ground, its white ear-trumpet pointed toward the rising sun. The whine of a cicada. …

Garlic tops still point at the ground like dysfunctional minarets. Goldfinches weave through the canopy, circling the thistle-spined sun. …

The little wood satyr I first spotted yesterday flutters up from the side garden, yellow-rimmed eyespots like dim headlights in the fog. …

The Morning Porch/Patio