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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Blue sky with quarry noise and a singing robin. The sun stretches one finger of light down through all the trees on the hillside. …

Wet snow clings to every branch and twig, making the forest look almost as inviting as it does in early May when the leaves are half open. …

The first daffodils are in bloom in the cool sunlight, facing in all directions from a tight huddle. The neighbors' rooster crows and crows. …

The shrunken mound of plowed snow in my yard glistens dully, streaked with dead grass. The whinnying call of a red-bellied woodpecker. …

Overcast and cold. The groundhog that lives under the roots of a locust tree is out foraging. She climbs atop a stump and scratches herself. …

In the new snow, the splayed-hand tracks of an opossum cross the porch. A brown creeper busies itself on a tree at the wood's edge. …

Myrtle, speedwell, bittercress: my garden is a crashed party of uninvited blooms. But as Orwell noted, spring in general is illicit. …

Colder this morning, and no sign of the phoebes that came back yesterday. A robin sings and falls silent. The sun comes out, goes in. …

Cardinal, song sparrow, phoebe, robin... the spring chorus is already taking shape. Overhead, the calls of crows, their labored wingbeats. …

Dark rain clouds without much rain in them. The pure notes of tundra swans drift down from the immaculate tundra of the upper air. …

Hours of hard rain have brought out the green in tree trunks and branches, in laurel leaves, in moss. Even the fog has a slight green cast. …

The Morning Porch/Patio