Wednesday November 29, 2017

Dave Bonta November 29, 2017

The hiss of the wind. Oak leaves scud above the treetops in one direction while juncos and sparrows move through the weeds in the other.

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The lonely barking dog goes on and on, day after day. A newly opened rose on a bush I think of as ancient, though it's younger than me. …

Despite the heat, the oriole's enthusiasm is undiminished. The walking onions, like ostriches of fable, are stretching to bury their heads. …

Cloudy and cool. The springhouse phoebes hawk flies and mate at the edge of the woods, trailed by two fledglings with beaks agape. …

The hollow tock of a chipmunk calling from within the rock wall. A chickadee perched atop the stump opens his wings wide to shake off rain. …

Hot and humid. A lone 17-year cicada's uncanny call. Where last night a drunk intruder stumbled in the weeds, a cloud of gnats, hovering. …

A mourning cloak butterfly circles the porch and yard three times, going behind my chair, including me in whatever it means to outline. …

The first four peonies burst their buds in the night and open to a sky of hazy pink. From under the house, a cat's hollow cough. …

Pale bones of the dead elm, standing at the edge of the yard like an emissary from Lent amidst a Mardi Gras of green, reach into fog. …

The flower heads on the white lilac are half-brown now. Two phoebes take turns flying into the bush, momentarily quelling insistent peeps. …

The Morning Porch/Patio