Friday October 02, 2009

Dave Bonta October 2, 2009

Cold drizzle. The burble of a song sparrow. A flycatcher of indeterminate species flutters up from the foxtail millet beside the stream.

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Under a low cloud ceiling, the keening calls of waxwings. Daffodils have raised their green spears all around the broken statue of a dog. …

Cold rain and fog. A flock of grackles wheels low over the house—the sudden waterfall sound of their wings all turning at once. …

In the soft light of a half-hidden sun, the old red maple beside the road is ruddy with blossoms. The sound of teeth chiselling a walnut. …

A second male phoebe has returned. Their warring warbles echo off the hillside at sunrise, interspersed with a cowbird's liquid notes. …

Three pileated woodpeckers work the trees just inside the woods' edge, inching up trunks and cocking their heads to listen before they tap. …

Woodpeckers drumming at sunrise. It occurs to me that they might not be telegraphing "I am here" so much as verifying that the world is. …

The rapid scrabble of claws on bark, that waterfall sound. Three chasing squirrels spiral down the big locust like an animated barber pole. …

The sun blazes through naked trees still six weeks from leaf-out. Three vultures wheel, flapping to stay aloft in the frigid air. …

The rain-soaked forest glistens in the sun, bejeweled. The air is full of traffic noise and gnats with shining wings. …

The snow is gone (again) and the first phoebe circles the barn and shed, expressing his satisfaction with the location, location, location. …

The Morning Porch/Patio