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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Bright sun after last night's long-awaited rain. A chipmunk races down the road with cheek pouches bulging. A wood pewee's melancholy call. …

The feral garlic top-heads have split their skins, unveiling clusters of beady eyes. The sun's a glowing smudge. It's going to be hot. …

Tiny ants are digging holes in the tansy flowers—yellow eyes with seething black pupils. A single-propeller plane: the sound of a clear day. …

This morning it hits me: how silent the woods have become now with most of the migrants done singing their fierce but temporary attachments. …

It starts to rain. A hover fly lands on the rim of my mug, its thin, yellow-banded abdomen twitching like a nervous and anorexic bee. …

Two years later, the branch still dangles upside-down above the forest floor. A hummingbird pauses over a tansy and taps it with her bill. …

A bat swoops past my face—a puff of wind. The interminable whistle of a train creeping toward the crossing. A sliver of moon. …

The Morning Porch