Wednesday September 06, 2017

Dave Bonta September 6, 2017

I cede the porch to the hornets and sit under the portico. The view: a garden full of weeds, a least flycatcher landing briefly on an aster.

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September 22, 2017
Under dark clouds, the field full of goldenrod glows in the rising sun's light like some Viking hoard in an archaeologist's trench.
September 22, 2016
Clear and cold at sunrise. A migrant thrush calls from the not-yet-ruined temple of the trees. Overhead, the archaic smile of the moon.
September 22, 2015
Overcast and cool. Tiny, pale-winged insects drift back and forth, and—perhaps not coincidentally—the yard trees seethe with small birds.
September 22, 2014
Wind shuffles the suddenly yellow leaves of elm and birch—their marked decks. A fly wanders the inside of a window pane on sticky feet.
September 22, 2013
The hornets stream in and out of their hole in the garden, departing to the south, returning from the east. A towhee calling in the dogwood.
September 22, 2012
My mother emerges from the weeds beside the springhouse with a handful of mint. Behind her at the woods' edge, a red-tailed hawk takes wing.
September 22, 2011
A series of high-pitched snorts from a deer up on the ridge. Coyote? Bear? Or—imagine the horror for an herbivore—an attack of hay fever?
September 22, 2010
Dawn breeze. The whine of tires from the highway over the ridge is punctuated by the heavy thwacks of falling walnuts.
September 22, 2009
Blue jays in the rain, less blue than gray, converge on an oak one tree in from the edge, tails like hands spread for a throw of dice.
September 22, 2008
Equinox. A flat-white sky, and for the first time I notice two maple trees at the woods' edge already half infiltrated by orange, by red.

The Morning Porch/Patio

The view from my front porch (in Pennsylvania) or back patio (in London) every morning, in 140 or fewer characters

Wednesday September 06, 2017