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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A squirrel dangles upside-down beside the bird feeder and lifts the tube to its snout. A wood pigeon flaps in for the spilled millet. …

Crystal-clear sky. A piece of thistledown floats past like an airborne jellyfish. A hummingbird visits the last, purple scraps of bergamot. …

A flat white sky. The ambiguous gestures of random leaves, waving or perhaps drowning in the thick air. A hummingbird is here and gone. …

A furious buzzing from around the house where hummingbirds duel over the last few beebalm flowers. A half-grown fawn emerges from the woods. …

Back from London, my ears are still adjusting to the country. The unending insect thrum seems to come from some city hidden in the grass. …

I get up to pick the ripe berries on the spicebush in my garden. Allspice aroma wafts up from the red drupes as I pinch them off the twigs. …

A buck in velvet, his coat already turning gray, startles up out of the grass. A hungry hummingbird presses her bill to the metal flamingo. …

Cool and clear. The hair I cut last night by moonlight, leaning over the rail with the electric clippers, still shines silver in the weeds. …

A horse fly—rare visitor—rides my parents' car down the road, then follows me onto the porch. It takes two flyswatter blows to do her in. …

I'm beginning to distinguish individual locomotives by their whistles. The majority merely say Look Out, but a few almost manage I Am. …

The Morning Porch/Patio