Thursday April 16, 2015

Dave Bonta April 16, 2015

Two wild turkeys cross the road into the woods, their dark feathers shining in the sun as they disappear into the equally lustrous laurel.

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Clear and cold. A contrail feathers in several directions. The dog makes a half-hearted run at a wood pigeon, who takes a half-hearted hop. …

A raven flies over the house, croaking. I keep wiping droplets of mist off the glossy pages of the book I'm reading about the holocaust. …

Among the died-back stiltgrass below the porch, a cluster of native deer-tongue grass has emerged, pointed "tongues" just beginning to curl. …

In the big oaks tossing in the wind, finally some splotches of color. A freight train's out-of-tune horn blows a chord unknown to music. …

Gray rain ripples the air—November's fur blurring the last splashes of bright October: salmon-colored cherry leaves, a vivid limb of maple. …

Half an hour after sunrise, a shimmering oscillation, as if from a juggler of knives: despite the cold, a dragonfly is circling the yard. …

At the base of the hill, the meadow is white with frost. A small deer carries the white torch of its tail up into the sunlit woods. …

In the cold rain, a squirrel sits on an elm limb with its back to the trunk working on a walnut, its tail folded over its head like a hood. …

The first frost fades under a white sky. I'm noticing how at a distance even a sound like the banging of a hammer becomes a sort of music. …

Sun blazes through a newly open woods, glossy on the backs of wild turkeys: nine hens and two jakes, who keep pausing to fan their tails. …

In the pouring rain, a six-point buck rips leaves off a lilac branch that the storm broke down, his antlers the same color as the break. …

The French lilac, unseasonably green; Japanese barberries flaunting too-numerous fruit; me with my steaming Ethiopian brew, rain in my face. …

The Morning Porch/Patio