Thursday July 12, 2018

Dave Bonta July 12, 2018

The labored wingbeats of a wood pigeon spooked by my turning of a page, two cabbage white butterflies swirling in its wake.

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A few, tiny patches of snow linger behind clumps of dead stiltgrass. The sun blazes through the thinning crown of an oak; I start to sneeze. …

Cold and quiet but for the stream's gurgle. Bare limbs are pale in the half-strength sun, as if they'd all been barked clean by a porcupine. …

Hoarfrost costumes the yard, sparkling in the sun for a few minutes of glory. Oaks that looked brown under clouds glow orange and red again. …

More rain. From the treetops, the thin whistles of cedar waxwings. A squirrel digs up a walnut in the yard and buries it a foot away. …

Overcast and cold. On the south side of the house, an aster is still in bloom, its small constellation trembling in the wind. …

The first half-inch of snow. A mink appears along the creek, looping over and under the snow-laden grass like a dark needle and thread. …

Unseasonably warm. A raucous flock of juncos courses back and forth behind the house. Squirrels chase at top speed on the forest floor. …

A grown fawn nuzzles her mother's flank as if to nurse. The mother whirls around, head lowered, threatening with invisible antlers. …

When I turn to go in, I'm struck by the cherry tree's shadow, how the sun divided by the forest canopy multiplies each branch by three. …

Wind out of the east, and with it the noise of cars and trucks and trains funneled up the hollow's half a horn. A smudge of sun. …

Two white-tailed deer leap through the dried goldenrod and asters beyond the springhouse, surfacing, diving—dolphins in a brown sea. …

A pair of ravens fly low over the house, invisible in the fog. I'm lost in thought about trickster gods, and right on cue: Arrk! Arrk! Arrk! …

The Morning Porch/Patio