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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Through thinning clouds, the mid-morning sun's dull glow. Below in the woods, leaves and branches beaded with moisture begin to glisten. …

Far off through the woods, the bell-like notes of three wood thrushes—young ones mastering the music of their tribe before they disperse. …

Cloudless and cool. The only cricket sound is a low murmur. From up in the woods, the distant crashing of deer running through the laurel. …

Overcast and cool, with the smell of rain. Instead of the crows that woke me at dawn, now ravens are exchanging croaks, one high, one low. …

The vibrating of a dead branch from which a bird has just flown. In a funnel spider web among the weeds, 14 raindrops from the last storm. …

The misty sunrise puts me in a Hallmark mood: Roses are brown,/ violets, long dead./ This coffee is bitter/ and goes straight to my head. …

Clear sky, 55°F. A cicada and a wood pewee singing at the same time: Sunlight! Shadows! Up in the other house, the phones begin to ring. …

The Morning Porch