Saturday November 03, 2018

Dave Bonta November 3, 2018

Oak leaves that turned brown just a few days ago already rattle instead of rustling. A hunter in gray camouflage emerges from the woods.

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From under the house, rabbit tracks encircling a half-eaten raspberry cane, raccoon tracks going straight to the stream—muddy on the return. …

As the sunlight advances, the frosted yard turns from glitter to glisten. The barn-red cardinal's inexplicably cheerful two-note tune. …

The last trace of snow has gone again. The sky is blank. What kind of January is this? Trees rock back and forth like traumatized refugees. …

The snowstorm slows down just after daybreak, as if drawing its breath. I hear my mother on her back porch yelling at the squirrels. …

The snow shovel lies supine, fresh snow in its scoop. Wind-blown icicle drips dot the squirrel and rabbit tracks with random punctuation. …

This morning's stillness is made of fresh snow, a distant jet, the quiet squeaks of a downy woodpecker and a dove's whistling wings. …

Fog at daybreak, and a thin coat of sleet like coarse sand. From up in the woods, the sudden squealing of a squirrel fighting off a suitor. …

A distant quarry truck's reverse beeper has gone bad, and trills just like a digital alarm clock. Dueling chickadees tumble through the air. …

The ground is white again, a half-inch-thick pelt that must've formed in the small hours. The water's monologue continues at a lower key. …

Silhouetted against the snow, not one but two rabbits! Winter says: where much is hidden, much is also revealed. Ask the great-horned owls. …

It's snowing: single flakes at first, then more and more clumps, some asymmetric enough to spin or spiral—tiny leaves from a vast tree. …

The Morning Porch/Patio