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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So clear and bright I can see a strand of spider silk still flying from the eaves. The rumble of our neighbor's truck breaks the silence. …

Something has been ripping into the old hornet's nest on the porch ceiling: pieces of its gray paper litter the fresh snow. A wren flies in. …

Overcast and still. A wild goose flies over, honking as if on the proverbial chase. The dry leaves and dead grass begin to tick with rain. …

Between rains, a harlequin ladybug wanders up and down a porch column, seemingly averse to stepping out onto a floor the color of its back. …

The steady fall of snow—still somehow mesmerizing. That flux leading to so much sameness. Sun glimmering faintly like a lost coin. …

Sallow sky; a yellow pustule of sun. In a tall oak, a pileated woodpecker bangs his head, attracting an entourage of smaller woodpeckers. …

Under the deer-ravaged rosebush in the middle of the yard, a round patch of blood some three inches wide, turned pink by a dusting of snow. …

Backlit by the sun, the weathered mountain laurel bushes turn to green fire under the trees, with pale shadows that must be patches of snow. …

The sound of Monday carries on the wind over the ridge. Here, patches of blue, none of them yet coinciding with the sun. A raven croaks. …

Just two, isolated caks in half an hour, but I'm almost certain it's a Cooper's hawk turning over his rusty courtship motor. Happy March! …

An hour before dawn, the new-fallen snow glows yellow with the light from town. The crescent moon appears through a hole in the clouds. …

The Morning Porch