8/15/2012

Dave Bonta August 15, 2012 4

cricket cricket cricket cricket cricket cricket cricket cricket cricket cricket cricket cricket CROW CROW CROW cricket cricket cricket crick

4 Comments

JMartin
12 years ago Permalink

How obscurely satisfying to anticipate that last “crick.”

Love the historical sidebar, by the way. Cloud montage in today’s puddle.
1. Dave Bonta
  12 years ago Permalink
  
  Thanks. I’m enjoying the sidebar too — I guess I was just as lazy as everyone else in rarely clicking on the links that were there before.
Tokens
12 years ago Permalink
Rosemary Nissen-Wade
12 years ago Permalink

:)

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8/15/2012

September 20, 2023
Clearing enough by 8:00 for the sun to nest in the treetops. Highway noise subsides, giving way to the knocks and clatter of falling walnuts…
8/15/2012

September 20, 2022
A clear dawn sky, with the crescent moon like Orion’s boomerang just missing Castor and Pollux. The widely scattered chirps of migrating birds.
8/15/2012

September 20, 2021
Spring peeper just after moonset. Then whippoorwill. Wood thrush. Carolina wren. Phoebe. A pileated woodpecker cackles and it’s day.
8/15/2012

September 20, 2020
The dial thermometer’s red arrow has just missed 0°C. A black tiger moth caterpillar is curled by the stoop like a dropped comma.
8/15/2012

September 20, 2018
The laboring motor in the septic service truck, pumping out our tanks—I try to hear anything else. The Carolina wren. An electric drill.
8/15/2012

September 20, 2017
Crystal-clear sky crossed by flocks of goldfinches. Church bells clang the 8 o’clock hour, a sad exultation that once meant time for school.
8/15/2012

September 20, 2016
The sun moves through the foggy woods like a spider at the center of her web. The hollow tocks of chipmunks up and down the…
8/15/2012

September 20, 2015
Clear and cold after last night’s showers. In the garden, the asters are all pinched shut like collapsed eyes with long, purple lashes.
8/15/2012

September 20, 2014
The clack of acorns hitting branches on their way to the ground. I’m beating myself up trying to kill a mosquito reconnoitering my torso.
8/15/2012

September 20, 2013
The thin fog turns blue before disappearing. At the woods’ edge, ants rise on filmy wings like a curl of smoke.

Go all the way back to 2008...

The Morning Porch

Daily short takes from an Appalachian hollow

8/15/2012

4 Comments