Sunday September 15, 2013

Dave Bonta September 15, 2013

Cold at sunrise. A pileated woodpecker hitches up the trunk of tall locust, pausing to yell when he reaches the sunlit crown.

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Through the warm sun and the cold wind, hummingbirds come and go. I squint at the trees, trying to tell if the leaves are any bigger today. …

A flock of warblers at the woods' edge in the pouring rain: flashes of redstart, cerulean, black-and-white. A singing black-throated green. …

Overcast enough that the wood thrushes are still singing at mid-day. The cloying scent of cypress spurge wafts over from my weedy herb bed. …

A box turtle plods across the yard, the markings on its shell as bright as fresh graffiti. A bluebird scratches behind his ear like a dog. …

The old crabapple tree next to the springhouse has pulled it off again, blossoming wildly. The catbird scat-sings from its purple depths. …

The red porch floor is pocked with yellowish green pollen. In the garden, a red crabapple petal is plastered to a witch hazel leaf. …

A muffled knocking from inside the dead elm. A flicker's head pops out of a hole and flings a billful of wood chips into the sun. …

Two grackles appear at the woods' edge, iridescent black against the brightest green of the year. In the garden, the first yellow iris. …

April's solitary vireo and brown thrasher have been replaced by red-eyed vireo and catbird—an adagio movement giving way to an allegro. …

Black-throated green: the warbler lisping at the woods' edge, but also the woods itself, green-feathered, trunks running dark with rain. …

The Morning Porch