Sunday September 22, 2013

Dave Bonta September 22, 2013

The hornets stream in and out of their hole in the garden, departing to the south, returning from the east. A towhee calling in the dogwood.

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Trees at the woods' edge with their branches out to catch all the light they can—or in this case, snow. A pileated woodpecker's flaming cap. …

Saturday sounds from down-ridge: crows, a chainsaw snarling and muttering, a pack of dogs—or is it wild geese, somewhere above the clouds? …

A skim of snow. A jay monitored by three fierce chickadees gives that red-tailed hawk scream—the one that signifies an eagle in the movies. …

The barberry bush, still red with fruit, is heavy with a second crop of snow. From its depths, a white-throated sparrow's plaintive song. …

Wind-blown snow. I sit with my feet propped on the railing until my jeans turn white. A junco flies under them as if I weren't there. …

Blue shadows on the snow, and the sun so bright, sparkles gleam like lighthouse beacons even from within some of the thinner shadows. …

The white flame of a deer's tail bobs among the laurel. Another doe shakes her head, flinging rain water in all directions. …

A large white bird—albino crow? Lost seagull?—glimpsed through the snow, agglomerated flakes as big as small leaves, rocking and spinning. …

Windy and cold. Six-legged stars bloom on my jeans, standing out against the faded black where the ticks of autumn had been so camouflaged. …

The promised snowstorm has yet to arrive. The air is dead still, and an hour after daybreak, the ground remains lighter than the sky. …

Commotion among the pileated woodpeckers: cackling, drumming. One swoops past and lands on the side of a tree with a magician's flourish. …

The Morning Porch/Patio