Monday September 21, 2015

Dave Bonta September 21, 2015

The wind is out of the east, and, slight as it is, carries an acrid, chemical smell from the sewage plant and the quarry’s dull roar.

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No frost yet, but the woods' edge is riddled with fresh chinks of sky. The squeaky rattle of a winter wren as it pops out of the weeds. …

The train's horn is full of Monday. Migrating towhees compare notes at the edge of the woods. A blue wound closing in the clouds. …

Scattered crow caws coalesce into a flash mob filled with rage, but dissipate in less than a minute. High up in the clouds, a raven croaks. …

Cloudy and cold. A bluebottle fly clings to a porch column, stopped head pointing at five o'clock. Four geese go over—a confusion of honks. …

The trees seethe with the small birds of winter. Even the cherry stump beside the porch attracts a nuthatch's thorough investigation. …

From behind the springhouse, the opening notes of a song sparrow's song, and a moment later, the closing notes of a white-throated sparrow. …

At first light, some newly toppled tree creaks in the wind. What I'd taken for the dog statue on the far side of the yard swivels its ears. …

Through a new hole in the forest, the sun imparts a half-minute nimbus to a tree trunk on the crest of the ridge. Clouds race by. …

A wet blanket of snow has crushed the lilac and bowed down the flaming maples and still-green oaks. Every 30 seconds another crack or crash. …

I can smell the rain coming two hours away. When it finally arrives, mixed in with the falling leaves, two spring peepers begin to call. …

The Morning Porch/Patio