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.
Cool and almost clear. A few clouds come scudding from the same direction as the highway noise, as if themselves powered by small engines.
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.
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.
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.
Cold and clear. A squirrel climbs to the top of a red maple, bites off a seed-laden twig and carries it to a lower limb—a feast of wings. * The […]
A hairy woodpecker loudly inspects the woods’ edge. In the clear, cold air, the half-grown leaves are aglow—almost too green to believe.