Tuesday October 25, 2016

Dave Bonta October 25, 2016

The wind persists, and now that the walnut trees are bare I can see the aspens by the marsh, their perpetually agitated crowds yellowing up.

Previous Post: Previous Post

Next Post: Next Post

The waxy surfaces of laurel and rhododendron leaves glitter in the sun. A bluebird sits silently on a branch, waiting for insects to stir. …

Snow blowing off the trees mingles with fresh flakes. Cloud shadow subsumes tree shadows like a malnourished rabbit reabsorbing her young. …

The thermometer's arrow nudges past 32 in the sun, but the wind's still cold, and the damp soil at the woods' edge glitters with needle ice. …

Chickadees twittering back and forth in the birches. In the snow beside my chair, the small, intricately clawed tracks of a chipmunk. …

A half inch of snow—just enough to make the ground mirror the flat-white sky. A chickadee sings his two-note, minor-key song. …

Little sign left of last night's ice storm, except beneath the black walnut trees in the yard: long, brown run-off stains on the snow. …

Dialogue or mere coincidence? A crow calling from the ridge is answered syllable for syllable by a red-bellied woodpecker in the yard. …

Scattered snowflakes coursing back and forth. I'm struck by the illusion of a hive-mind, scouts out searching for a new safe-hold. …

An urgent, nasal call: the Cooper's hawks are back. The female glides into a tall pine while the male appears and disappears among the oaks. …

Sunrise. A bluebird sings from the electric line, and suddenly it feels 25 degrees warmer. A ragged V of geese, too low to be migrants. …

Right after a mourning dove's song, a screech owl trills at the very same pitch. The sun floats free of the horizon and into the bluest sky. …

Rain and fog. A robin drops into the barberry bush, tut-tutting. Up in the woods, two deer stand with their heads buried in the soft snow. …

The Morning Porch