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 spicebush swallowtail careens through the yard, where bracken fronds nod in three directions. A downy woodpecker upside-down on a limb. …

Noise from the quarry—a grinding drone that runs under everything: oriole song, woodpecker drumming, a hummingbird's Geiger-counter clicks. …

Yarrow, fleabane, silky dogwood... white is in style. But the cabbage white butterflies still prefer the purple remnants of dame's-rocket. …

Just like yesterday the clear light, the mid-morning doe with her fawn. But today there's a second fawn, prancing, kicking up its heels. …

A cloudless sky and air so clear, I can see gnats dancing 100 feet away. In the deep shade, borrowing shards of sun, the wings of a crow. …

A male yellowthroat flies from perch to perch without singing. It occurs to me that most of the music in my life wasn't made for human ears. …

A golden light straight out of the Kabbalah, where two angels attend every grass blade—one singing like a vireo, the other, a quarry truck. …

Has anyone ever exclaimed, "The dock is in bloom!"? Fuzzy green spires with a hint of orange, surrounded by bobbing candelabras of brome. …

The Morning Porch