Sunday March 27, 2016

Dave Bonta March 27, 2016

In the soft light of a half-hidden sun, the old red maple beside the road is ruddy with blossoms. The sound of teeth chiselling a walnut.

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The dead are restless, through no fault of their own: last year's leaves shuffled about by the wind. But the sun is strong. A phoebe calls. …

Cold rain and fog. A squirrel disappears into the old flicker den hole in the dead elm, that smooth, ruined column at the edge of the yard. …

The stone wall chipmunk keeps sneaking onto the territory of the road bank chipmunk, then fleeing back across the yard—a striped blur. …

An inch of new snow and a bitter wind. Daffodils droop like old balloons. A white-throated sparrow's song pauses and resumes one octave up. …

Two deer wander through the yard, coats wet with rain. The scrawnier one samples the daffodil sprouts, then startles at the old dog statue. …

A pileated woodpecker lands on the dead elm. She drums just below the old flicker den hole, then peers into it, moving her head all about. …

All up the hillside, the glossy leaves of mountain laurel shimmer in the sun and wind. Minute snowflakes from who knows where pelt my cheek. …

An old strand of caterpillar silk at the wood's edge shimmers in the sun. A crow keeps saying something urgent in four syllables. …

I'm enjoying the stillness: that great word that reminds us that sound too is a form of motion. But the shadows do move. A crow calls. …

Such a startling and ridiculous sound, the turkey's gobble—like gargling with marbles. And then a blue-headed vireo's quiet soliloquy. …

A warm east wind. Curtains of rain on the almost-open buds of red maple, pussy willow, daffodils, and lilac leaves like green bishop's hats. …

The feral cat is back from wherever it goes for the winter. It crouches on a fallen limb, eyes fixed on the weeds, gathered for the spring. …

The Morning Porch/Patio