Wednesday November 18, 2015

Dave Bonta November 18, 2015

Cold and gray. Two doves sit motionless in a tall locust. A pileated woodpecker skulks through the woods, silent save for its wingbeats.

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In the red center of a berry-laden barberry bush, a male cardinal turns all about, gorging. When he flies, so much of its red goes with him. …

Snowflakes land on the dog's thick brown fur and take a long time to melt. I begin to look differently at the brown, snow-dusted hillside. …

The sun is a bright nipple in milk-white clouds. On the ground, a new, thin fur—what deer hunters like to call a good tracking snow. …

Overcast and windy. Two nuthatches descend tree trunks on either side of the road, calling back and forth as they glean in the furrows. …

At first the snow falls straight and serious. But as it thins, they seem to lose their direction and wander back and forth, these flakes. …

Pale patches on the upper sides of branches, almost like snow: lichens opening their pores to the rain and fog. My left eyelid twitches. …

Clear and cold. I shut my eyes against the sun, and the lace-work of tree branches reappears in white on the red canvas of my eyelids. …

Emily Dickinson's 180th birthday. The sky's flat whiteness matches the ground: the blank of a page, of self-erasure, of astonishment. …

Yesterday's slush has grown hard as cartilage. I watch a small flock of snowbirds hopping around on it, unfazed by the bitter wind. …

Rain and fog. Only the low rumbly sounds break through: a jet, a train. Sitting in the dark, it's almost possible to believe in isolation. …

The cooing turned out to be a raven—later on, it was barking like a dog. Rifle season is over, and the mountain is littered with gut piles. …

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