Tuesday January 14, 2014

Dave Bonta January 14, 2014

At the woods’ edge, a jumble of bone-white sticks: spicebush branches debarked by rabbits. A gray blur where a titmouse grooms in the lilac.

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A dragonfly with shimmering, banded wings and an electric blue abdomen lands on a garlic seed-head, falls still and nearly disappears. …

A half-grown fawn, no mother in sight, wanders through the foxtail millet and into the woods, its fading spots glimmering in the deep shade. …

A honeybee conducts a slow inspection of the porch railing, including my boots. I'm pondering the secret cousinship of wrens and crickets. …

Cool, clear and quiet—a silence that's part Sunday and part molting season. The Canada thistles too are shedding white fur into the breeze. …

Gone is the persistent "tweet?" of the breeding season: at first light, the towhee's call falls like a declarative, flat and final. …

At sunrise, a pair of screech owls trill back and forth, one high, one low, as orange-and-purple clouds race overhead. …

The Morning Porch/Patio