Saturday November 14, 2015

Dave Bonta November 14, 2015

Between bitter gusts of wind, I hear the calls of juncos and nuthatches, chickadees and titmice, a song sparrow singing in the ditch.

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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