Friday September 10, 2010

Dave Bonta September 10, 2010

The corpse of a moth flaps upside-down against the column. Beyond the springhouse, a broken branch dangles—the leaves’ pale undersides.

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It's the absence of sound that makes a snowstorm so disquieting. A squirrel plows its way through snow-laden treetops—a slow-moving cascade. …

Sunlight at half-strength on the half-gone snow. Behind the house, a squirrel twists and rubs itself ecstatically against a rotten stump. …

Backlit by the sun, the one branch of marcescent oak leaves at the woods' edge looks like a bough of orange flowers, old before their time. …

Yesterday's snow clings to the trees in tatters, long ribbons of it drooping from branches like torn sleeves before crumbling to dust. …

Up early, I can't set my hat-brim low enough to block the sun, so settle for bedazzlement. Two squirrels by the stream walking in circles. …

Censored by wind and distance, a mourning dove's call retains only the middle notes, like a bell tolling for the long, slow death of winter. …

Sound is out of the east: a ululating quarry truck, a train whistle that won't shut up. Clouds thin just where the sun is—a sudden glow. …

Cold, gray and rainy. I'm wearing my spring coat, but it could be November, except for the pussy willow catkins—those glimmering furs. …

The song sparrow sings at first light—just once, like an alarm going off. Then nothing but the creek's quiet conversation for 20 minutes. …

Cold and clear. Looking west, I spot a bright white dot on the far side of the field: the breast of a red-tailed hawk shining in the sun. …

The wind has smashed my chair, so I carry my coffee up behind the barn to watch the woodcock circling in the dawn sky. A satellite flares. …

The Morning Porch/Patio