Tuesday August 21, 2012

Dave Bonta August 21, 2012

Tent caterpillar webs billow, white as sails—still full of the dawn fog. Two nuthatches kvetch back and forth at the woods’ edge.

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Slow winter dawn: light leaking through the trees. A Carolina wren's molto vivace prompts his mate to respond in sforzando. …

Wandering tracks of sparrows and juncos in the snow below the porch. Beyond that, bare patches pawed open by hungry deer in the night. …

In the weak sun, the icicles on the eaves are dull as plastic. A fine fur of frost coating the tree branches reminds me of my housekeeping. …

A barred owl calls in the bright sun. Snow meltwater starts dripping onto the porch roof—a simple rhythm that grows increasingly complex. …

Cold and clear. My hat pulled down to block the sun, tree shadows on the snow help me gauge not only the time but the sky's depth of blue. …

A lighter band of clouds above the horizon. Half-way up the brown hillside, a flock of winter birds—flashes of white from their wings. …

With the snowpack in retreat, those seedheads I'd gotten so used to seeing have disappeared back into the underlying chaos of dead weeds. …

I bring no hat brim or sunglasses to my front-porch tete-a-tete with the sun, grateful on such a cold morning for any display of warmth. …

The snowpack glows in the soft, mid-morning light. A dog barks in the valley. The resonant knocks of a woodpecker opening a new door. …

Out earlier than usual, it takes me much too long to understand why the cloudy sky is darker than the snow. Black coffee, enlighten me! …

Leaf-sized shards of snow sail out of the woods. The black cat wallows up to her chest, pausing every few steps to shake one of her legs. …

Not all natural sounds are pleasant, not all industrial sounds are ugly: the train whistle sounds so much better than a scolding squirrel! …

The Morning Porch/Patio