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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Yesterday it was below freezing and rained; now it's above freezing and snow is coming down: dilettantish at first, then in a mad dance. …

Winter's back. You can see it in the dash of snow and thick crust of clouds, hear it in the train's horn and the querulous cries of crows. …

‪The black-and-white simplicity of a fairy-tale snow that clings to every dark twig: a fragile magic that never lasts beyond eleven o'clock.‬ …

A wet snow has turned the trees Victorian, every last twig edged with filigree. The only sound from the valley is the rumbling of trains. …

Another bright, frigid morning. I could get used to this light without heat, snow like a white beach, a hissing of surf from the tall pines. …

New snow on every twig: a strange fur, this fine, dry stuff that forms so far below freezing. A vole rustles in the leaves beside the porch. …

Five degrees above freezing; a steady tap of meltwater on the porch roof. Crows. A blue, eye-shaped hole in the clouds eases shut. …

The ugly squat burdock has a thin and graceful shadow. It inches over the snow without getting snagged by the sharp sparkles of sun. …

A flat white sky, against which the cackling silhouettes of pileated woodpeckers flap and dive. My nostrils prickle with the smell of rain. …

Treetops sway wildly at first light, squeaking and clattering. A rabbit zigzags across the yard, pausing at each dark patch of bare ground. …

A crow caws, and I'm struck by how much it resembles a barking dog. More crows, and the impression persists: Arf arf arf! A murder of dogs. …

The Morning Porch/Patio