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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A wren sings in the garden of our Iranian neighbor, whose wisteria infiltrates the elder tree so that it blooms two ways at once. …

On a crystal-clear morning, the whinnying cry of a red-bellied woodpecker seems full of angst, and a jay's rasping call—pure frustration. …

A tiger swallowtail flies past in one direction, a cabbage white in another. I sit reading Rubén Darío until everything seems symbolic. …

Each bird I see has something in its beak: wren—a streamer of dried grass, chickadee—a seed, towhee—a bundle of stalks, grackle—a millipede. …

Two maple keys dangle in an old spiderweb underneath the porch railing, like uneaten remnants of some unfortunate winged creature. …

Phoebe in the barnyard, pewee in the woods. What is it about cleared land that turns a lilting refrain into a burden, a shrill work song? …

Cool and quiet—a thoroughly dull morning, I'm thinking. Just then a hen turkey lands in the yard with a clamor of wings and saunters off. …

Strong sun, and the air so clear, I can see the tiniest floating krill. A cranefly seems enormous—until a pileated woodpecker flops in. …

Birdcall like the chant of some demented sports fan: the yellow-billed cuckoo is back! The forest canopy must be full enough to skulk in. …

The Morning Porch/Patio