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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On the snow-covered log beside the stream, the baby's-handprint tracks of raccoons. A wren above the water burbling in counterpoint. …

A great silence punctuated only by an occasional gun shot. A squirrel digs up a black walnut from beside the porch and bounds off with it. …

A few snowflakes scud past. The dried blades of cattail next to the springhouse rattle and hiss. A dead leaf on the road flips over. …

Last night's snow has left a scant half-inch of fur on all the trees—these naked sleepers. Some of it melts, some evaporates into fog. …

After 15 hours of freezing fog, every twig is spiky with eldritch feathers. A squirrel makes a small thunder by running on the crusted snow. …

A flat-gray sky. Train whistles and quarry noise travel up the hollow, accompanying two overlapped umbrellas, one black, one white. …

Clouds creased above the sun's bleary eye. On the sage leaves, hair-thin frost crystals point in all directions—a disheveled pelt. …

Cold, and an iron wind. Two murders of crows rage at each other from the crowns of adjacent oaks, the sunrise slippery on their napes. …

Five inches of fresh slush. Were the woods briefly beautiful at 3:00 am? The cedar tree by the side of the house bends low over the garden. …

How the acoustics vary from one morning to the next! Yesterday, the hollow was a soundproofed room; today it's as echoey as a concert hall. …

Overcast and misty. Beyond the scolding squirrels, a cooing cry I can't place. I'm absurdly pleased with the echo when I break wind. …

The Morning Porch/Patio