Friday July 17, 2009

Dave Bonta July 17, 2009

Gray sky, gray titmouse descending the gray ladder of dead elm branches, pausing to swipe its bill against each as if sharpening a blade.

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The western ridge shines golden against dark clouds for a few minutes before the sun goes in. A gunshot. The gurgling of the stream. …

The forest is still a-flicker with falling leaves—astonishing this late in the year. Distant church bells. A chipmunk's agitated ticking. …

‪Outlined against the sky, the birch with its finches like leaves animated by separate winds. A downy woodpecker rattles in the cherry snag.‬ …

A faint shimmer of precipitation, and everything encased in a layer of ice as if the world's been shrink-wrapped for overnight delivery. …

Crow talks to crow in crow-talk, says "Crow!" The third crow says "Eat!" (It is just warm enough for carrion to be carried off.) …

Overcast and unseasonably warm. The scent of corn wafts up from the valley. A distant throbbing that could be a grouse or a diesel engine. …

Every branch and twig is white with rime, and overhead, a latticework of contrails. Three crows skim the treetops on their way to a mobbing. …

Tuesday's rain still roars in the creek and gurgles under the yard. The moss garden has turned mountainous from an orogeny of ice. …

Trees rock and sway. The dead elm has parted with its largest limb, and the oblong scar glows a creamy yellow, like a well-aged cheese. …

Out before dawn, I hear the crunch of boots up in the woods. It stops. All over the mountain, hunters are sitting silently in the trees. …

Sometime in the night the rain stopped, the temperature edged above freezing, and all the new armor fell from the trees. Snow in the air. …

The Morning Porch/Patio