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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The birds are mostly quiet now, breeding over—except for the robins, one of whom is chirping all 'round the suet, trying to summon a parent. …

In the bright sun, three potter wasps are raiding the bergamot blossoms, piercing the base of each purple tube to drain the nectar. …

Now that thistles are going to seed, the goldfinches are nesting at last. Two males chase—streaks of crayon-yellow through the treetops. …

The sound of a hummingbird at full throttle: a male rocketing back and forth in front of the cedar tree for a hidden female audience of one. …

Too humid for clothes, too buggy for bare skin. An enormous yellow bee-fly circles the tansies once, then zooms over to investigate my ear. …

A woodchuck waddles down the road, pausing every few feet to poke its head into the weeds. A fawn bleats up in the laurel. The sun goes in. …

A morning cold as autumn. At intervals, at the woods' edge, a red-tailed hawk, orange light, the song of a wood thrush. Here and gone. …

Glancing up from a book about Papua New Guinea, I see a doe and fawn crossing the yard and passing pale as spirits between the dark trees. …

The Morning Porch/Patio