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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Cloudy and cool. Raised voices over the wall—"You always undercut me!" "You don't even love me!"—drowned out by a jet on its final …

High in the trees, a small cloud of gnats yoyoing up and down, backlit by the sun, while an itch grows on my hand where a mosquito drills. …

The wild black currants are succumbing to their usual wilt—an extra shadow eating them from the inside as the stream gurgles between them. …

A deer leaps and twists in the tall grass to elude a fly, his damp pelt pale as a salmon, hoarse breathing just audible above the rain. …

A rare-for-summer inversion layer: throaty jake-break and tire whine, you sound like winter, that discordant note running under our lives. …

Rain like a drunk at a broken piano whose green keys all play the same note. The hornets still hide their hoard in a gray paper sack. …

A bluebird warbles in the darkness. Eyelids heavy with hours of missing sleep, I squint into the spreading stain of light. …

A bat lands on the inside end of the porch—right above the moon from where I sit—and crawls rapidly on its elbows toward the nearest crack. …

The Morning Porch/Patio