Sun floods the treetops. A red-tailed hawk glides in and lands with a thump. In the dark lilac, a tiny winter wren bustles about.
September 2017
September 15, 2017
The corpse of a bee hangs six feet above the garden, swaddled in webbing. Inside its fence, the amelanchier sprout is starting to redden.
September 14, 2017
Small birds flit through the tops of the locust trees—migrating warblers, no doubt. Birds of passage. Every now and then the cricket pauses.
September 13, 2017
Beads of rain reveal an orb-weaver’s web hung impossibly high above the garden, its maker like one darker drop with her legs tucked in.
September 12, 2017
Awakened at first light by a whip-poor-will, I find my lost hat and sit outside watching a white cat hunt at the edge of the road.
September 11, 2017
Strands of silk left by spider or caterpillar aeronauts shimmer in and out of view. From the woods, a chipmunk’s high-pitched monologue.
September 10, 2017
Hard to pin-point the emotions evoked by familiar bird calls, beyond just “blue jay feeling,” “nuthatch feeling,” “goldfinch feeling.”
September 9, 2017
I notice a new patch of touch-me-nots in the tall weeds, beaded with rain, their nectar-filled tails curled primly in wait for hummingbirds.
September 8, 2017
Cool and almost clear. A few clouds come scudding from the same direction as the highway noise, as if themselves powered by small engines.
September 7, 2017
The stiltgrass that has taken over the garden bends low with dew, and I remember: these are the “autumn grasses” beloved of Basho and Buson.
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.
September 5, 2017
The porch in my absence has become a home to hornets. They’re up at dawn, dozens inspecting the surface of their great paper death star.