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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Cold as a well under a deep blue sky torn by the distant roar of military jets. The morning singers carry on: cardinal, song sparrow, robin. …

‪Bluebird. Wild turkey. The first phoebe's soliloquy. Eventually he rounds the house and hovers under the porch roof, bill snapping on a fly.‬ …

One wood frog still calls in the marshy corner of the field, late for the orgy. Under the porch railing, the first, tiny spiders of spring. …

In an interval between cold rain showers, the sky brightens, until the remnant snowbanks begin to glow. A chickadee pivots atop a stump. …

A solid gray sky marred only by the sun's blurred searchlight. It's cold. From all directions, the anxious-sounding calls of woodpeckers. …

Yet again, the world is transformed by new snow clinging to every twig. The Carolina wren pokes his bill out from under the eaves to sing. …

Thick fog and silence, punctuated by the low, almost infrasonic throbs of a drumming grouse. The nasal cries of a fish crow pass overhead. …

Heavy frost, and the bare dirt in the garden has crystallized into icy turrets. Motes of snow float past, backlit by the sun. Robin song. …

I watch it grow light, then start to grow dark again. A rustle in the leaves that starts as the footfalls of deer turns to rain. …

A harsh cooing from the pine tree closest to the porch, like a hawk crossed with a dove. Two crows fly in, scold for a minute, and fly off. …

Clear and cold. A song sparrow sings half again faster than usual—"Hip hip hurrah boys, spring is here!"—as if he really means it this time. …

The Morning Porch/Patio