Thursday September 08, 2016

Dave Bonta September 8, 2016

The scattered creaks of red-winged blackbirds off in the woods. A mosquito wanders over my shirt, testing the fabric with her frail drill.

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The wind has died; it's zero. Through my balaclava and hood I can hear the excited chirps of juncos on the plowed road foraging for grit. …

Low, gray clouds, and the ground half-brown after a day and night of melting. Over the rumble of my furnace I hear a screech owl trilling. …

Fog like a soundproof room. As always, the dead cherry's five splayed stumps are giving the middle finger to the road—to whatever comes. …

As the predicted snow begins, my parents' bird feeders grow loud with chittering. An eddy of wind carries the distant snarl of a chainsaw. …

One squirrel doggedly trails another through the falling snow. A third joins in and it becomes a high-speed chase, full of yelps and whines. …

A slow snow. I love that brief period before the walk is completely buried: the random mottling, the impression of a great, anonymous crowd. …

Fresh, deep snow on all the outstretched branches at the woods' edge—those trees that have always hungered for an extra helping of light. …

Juncos fill the lilac, nearest cover to an unfrozen section of stream. Five or six at a time they flutter down to drink from the dark water. …

How is it the stars, glittering as brightly as I've ever seen them, can begin to fade before the first perceptible lightening of the sky? …

A gray squirrel sits motionless for several minutes on the topmost crook of a fallen limb. Then like a diver it plunges into the snow. …

Very cold, clear and still. My last dream before waking was of hummingbirds, and the trees at sunset shimmering with caterpillar tents. …

The Morning Porch/Patio