Sunday July 01, 2018

Dave Bonta July 1, 2018

For the potted sunflowers from our wedding party, this garden has been a green hell, their heads shrunken and leaves skeletonized by snails.

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The wind raises snow from the ground like a necromancer. Basking in the sun's feeble heat, I watch the six-spoked wheels settle on my coat. …

The stream gurgles like a bird: two ways at once. On the far side of a snag, a knock I take for a woodpecker, though it could be anyone. …

‪A clearing wind accompanied by Carolina wren song. At the woods' edge, moss is already emerging from yesterday's snow, greener than ever.‬ …

The dark strips laid bare by the snow plow pullulate with juncos. One silhouette is different, bouncier, twitchier: the Carolina wren. …

A distant siren. From a hole near the top of a tall black locust, a squirrel whines at precisely the same pitch. …

Crows begin scolding a red-tailed hawk on the far side of the field, and a squirrel digging in the yard hurtles into the bridal wreath bush. …

I think it's partly because the hillside is covered with evergreen laurel that this phenomenon of a white ground still seems so surreal. …

Low clouds, and the highway—almost inaudible for weeks—sounds close. The air shimmers. I stick an arm out, and white motes dot my sleeve. …

12 hours of downpour and the stream's a torrent, water clear from running off frozen ground. Small clouds rise like spirits from the snow. …

The sun glimmers from a shrinking patch of open sky along the horizon. Lake-bottom wrecks, in another minute the icy lid will cover us all. …

Two pairs of doves fly into the top of a tall locust and sit still as stones in the frigid wind, facing the pale moon, the crimson ridge. …

The Morning Porch/Patio