Wednesday November 21, 2018

Dave Bonta November 21, 2018

A singing contest between white-throated sparrows. Newly fallen oak leaves skitter back and forth on the snow under the trees.

Previous Post: Previous Post

Next Post: Next Post

Clear and still. The sun clearing the ridgetop blazes through a new hole in the wall of leaves, lighting up a column of pogoing gnats. …

Since 10:00 o'clock, the clouds that left have not been replaced. I find myself paying close attention to the nasal calls of chickadees. …

There's a new hole in the hornets' nest—flying squirrel? The scarlet oak we transplanted from the woods years ago is starting to color up. …

Snowflakes backlit by the sun. Unlike rain they don't just fall; they fly. A strip of bark is draped over a birch twig like a spare tie. …

Breezy and warm. A tulip-tree samara helicopters past the porch. In one of the bare birches, a single katydid plays his worn rasp. …

Cloudy and brisk; the woods are full of falling leaves. A sharp-shinned hawk flaps and glides just above the treetops, heading south. …

A breeze carries leaves from the dark woods to spiral down into the sunlit yard. A deer feeds on the lilac—the only remaining greenery. …

Halfway to the ground, a locust leaf reverses course and heads for the sky. The cattails whisper, a restive crowd, but the sun never comes. …

The crown of an oak that was green on Tuesday now glows orange in the sun. Every breeze shakes a fleet of helicopters out of the tulip tree. …

Quiet except for the wail of an eastbound freight: Grazierville. Tyrone. Plummer's Hollow. Then wind and darkness, coffee bitter in my cup. …

The Morning Porch