Wednesday April 27, 2016

Dave Bonta April 27, 2016

Overcast and cold. I am listening to the woodpeckers the way one listens to a marimba, savoring the varied, rich tones of dead wood.

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The earth is brown again, and the hillside hidden in fog. A one-minute rain shower. Nuthatches chatter. The sun makes a bleary appearance. …

‪The clouds that settled in yesterday haven't lifted, their slow drift barely perceptible through the shifting clarity of the trees.‬ …

Despite the wind, yesterday's snow still clings to the trees, like the sleep I keep trying to rub from my eyes. A wren's ascending rattle. …

Deep cold; nothing stirring but the wind. Clouds of snow blown off the trees are back-lit by the rising sun. …

Bitter cold with a wind. The hillside seems unusually still, and after a while I realize it's because there aren't any squirrels out. …

The dark-eyed juncos flock to the two dark wounds in all this white: the plowed road's bare stone and the thin, quiet trickle of a stream. …

Intense cold, and a stillness so deep the trains can barely be heard. A cardinal flickers like a pilot light under the bridal wreath bush. …

An hour before dawn, whose footsteps are those on the hard crust of snow, first tiptoeing, then running about? Mice, I think. No: sleet. …

Fingers of sunlight stretch across the yard. The resident naturalist climbs the trail into the woods with the aid of a long thin stick. …

Sun thinned by a fleet of clouds the color of dirty dishwater. The wind in the pines is virtually indistinguishable from distant traffic. …

The Morning Porch/Patio