Wednesday October 21, 2015

Dave Bonta October 21, 2015

The yelling of a crow unable to raise a mob. Sun glints on caterpillar silk strung like abandoned bunting among bare walnut-tree branches.

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A hummingbird buzzes below the porch, looking for the touch-me-nots that the deer have eaten. Fly on my shoe, is it everything you'd hoped? …

The box turtle whose territory my house happens to encroach upon sits in the driveway, yellow markings like a road sign in a foreign script. …

The yark, yark of ravens skimming the trees, the low cloud ceiling just above. Crushing humidity. Vegetation still drips from a dawn storm. …

A perfect morning, clear and cool. A gray squirrel is biting off small branches and carrying them into the thickest part of the tall locust. …

The small cross of a plane against the blue, its distant drone. A flicker climbing the dead elm loses his footing on a patch of sunlight. …

The jesters' caps on the topheading garlic have begun to split, revealing dense clusters of miniature selves. A raven's mechanical laughter. …

A crashing sound from the springhouse meadow: a pair of bucks chasing each other, frisky as fawns and neck-deep in weeds they do not eat. …

The Morning Porch