Sunday August 29, 2010

Dave Bonta August 29, 2010

As the plane fades in the distance, they return: a towhee, two lethargic vireos, a chipmunk’s water-drip-steady clucks, the garden cricket.

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So clear and bright I can see a strand of spider silk still flying from the eaves. The rumble of our neighbor's truck breaks the silence. …

Something has been ripping into the old hornet's nest on the porch ceiling: pieces of its gray paper litter the fresh snow. A wren flies in. …

Overcast and still. A wild goose flies over, honking as if on the proverbial chase. The dry leaves and dead grass begin to tick with rain. …

Between rains, a harlequin ladybug wanders up and down a porch column, seemingly averse to stepping out onto a floor the color of its back. …

The steady fall of snow—still somehow mesmerizing. That flux leading to so much sameness. Sun glimmering faintly like a lost coin. …

Sallow sky; a yellow pustule of sun. In a tall oak, a pileated woodpecker bangs his head, attracting an entourage of smaller woodpeckers. …

Under the deer-ravaged rosebush in the middle of the yard, a round patch of blood some three inches wide, turned pink by a dusting of snow. …

Backlit by the sun, the weathered mountain laurel bushes turn to green fire under the trees, with pale shadows that must be patches of snow. …

The sound of Monday carries on the wind over the ridge. Here, patches of blue, none of them yet coinciding with the sun. A raven croaks. …

Just two, isolated caks in half an hour, but I'm almost certain it's a Cooper's hawk turning over his rusty courtship motor. Happy March! …

An hour before dawn, the new-fallen snow glows yellow with the light from town. The crescent moon appears through a hole in the clouds. …

The Morning Porch