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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Sun through thin clouds. Over the wind, the sound of an electric chainsaw cutting and muttering. …

Two tulip poplar leaves vibrate in a private wind: chickadees. The western ridge turns from blood-red to orange to yellow—autumn in reverse. …

High winds after a soaking rain. The fallen walnuts in the driveway have all turned black, soggy hulls sagging like bodies in a bog. …

Gray in the west, yellow in the east, blue overhead. A tiny sharp-shinned hawk lands in a yard tree and only one squirrel bothers to scold. …

A titmouse scolds something hidden among blood-red barberries. The dead stiltgrass twitches with a second life like hair on a corpse. …

The woods and fields are brown now, but the large lilac is still a wall of yellowed green, like faded posters for a long-gone fair. …

Juncos forage in the meadow, softly twittering. The dull booms of distant gunshots like great lead spikes being driven into the earth. …

Calm. Sandy's center must be close. The top half of the dead elm tree has blown down, breaking the back of the old dog statue. …

Clumps of snow still dot the crowns of oaks—small clouds, a rain of angelic hats. Flaming orange and red leaves rattle in the wind. …

Now that summer's past, the cardinal has gone back to harassing her reflection. The frost-whitened myrtle bed. A barberry turned to flame. …

Rust-colored leaves hiss and rustle under a slate-gray sky. A blue jay struggles to fly with its gullet full of nuts. …

Another thin fur of snow on the ground. The four aspens in the corner of the field shiver as the sunlight floods their yellow crowns. …

The Morning Porch/Patio