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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Another snowfall. The small hole in the yard that leads to an underground stream remains open, like a breathing hole for seals in sea ice. …

The same sort of day as yesterday, but so many more bird calls! A chipmunk emerges and goes on an inspection tour of the old stone wall. …

Male cardinals bathe side-by-side in the stream, then resume chasing. A jay perches in a dogwood bush shaking the water from his wings. …

Shrunk in the cold, the porch floorboards pop loudly when I come out. In my snowshoe tracks below the porch, a scattering of rabbit pellets. …

Clear and very cold. The muffled roar of distant military jets. From up at the other house, a tufted titmouse's monotonous chant. …

Out of the dense fog, the too-fast-to-count taps of a woodpecker drumming for the music of it. He pauses to let a train whistle blow. …

This could be March, were it not for the late, slow-rising sun. The powerline right-of-way is a band of yellow light through the dark woods. …

It's snowing again. A blue jay keeps returning to the same high limb to eat snow, as if it can't find that exact flavor anywhere else. …

Cold dawn—a tree pops like a rifle. Nothing between here and the stars but the sunlight's thickening mud. My windward cheek turns numb. …

A dozen doves take flight all at once—a confusion of flutes. From the almost-finished house a quarter mile away, the scream of a power saw. …

Like a familiar word in the middle of a speech in some other language: through the roar of traffic from over the ridge, a screech owl calls. …

The Morning Porch/Patio