Monday December 03, 2018

Dave Bonta December 3, 2018

The western ridge shines golden against dark clouds for a few minutes before the sun goes in. A gunshot. The gurgling of the stream.

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A cat watches me from the depths of the mock orange tree. The birds are elsewhere, and silent, having begun singing around 4:00 a.m. …

A burst of activity at the top of one of the tall locusts: chickadees scold, a phoebe catches gnats, and other birds sit shining in the sun. …

A question mark butterfly on the railing next to my boots. A cuckoo's soft call sounds like an answer to the incessant caws of a crow. …

Six cabbage white butterflies dance in the heat. A halictid bee stumbles through the forest of hairs on the back of my arm. …

Gone for just two days, I come home to find half the lilac crushed by a fallen limb from the dead elm. A phoebe already uses it as a perch. …

The sun-struck meadow gives off a thin mist. From the front window, the tap of a female cardinal's bill against her rival in the glass. …

A hummingbird grooms itself in the middle of a downpour while a phoebe plucks insects from the side of the dead elm, hovering in place. …

Overcast and cold. A firefly floats past the porch with his abdomen pointing down, lamp at the ready for any unscheduled onset of darkness. …

The Morning Porch/Patio