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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Sun! The meadow glows goldenrod-yellow. Birch leaves at the woods' edge tremble with warblers. A mosquito sings her thirsty note in my ear. …

Sun floods the treetops. A red-tailed hawk glides in and lands with a thump. In the dark lilac, a tiny winter wren bustles about. …

Just in from the woods' edge, pileated woodpeckers are carrying on like drunks at a party, hollering, pounding, shrieking with joy or rage. …

Another perfect day. From just inside the woods' edge, the sledgehammer blows of a pileated woodpecker destroying a city of ants. …

Another cold morning: just one bee for all this goldenrod. The neighbors' rooster like some teenage band member practicing for a pep rally. …

Under a bowed head of goldenrod, a black and yellow garden spider hangs head-down, her web glittering with drops from last night's rain. …

From just inside the woods, a bird call I don't recognize—an anxious couple of notes. The purple asters slowly unclench to an overcast sky. …

Coldest morning of the month so far. I notice that each limb of the dead cherry is growing a shaggy coat of turkey-tail fungus. …

Walnut at the tip of a bent-down limb: a squirrel gets close, retreats, tries again. Abandons the tree for an oak, tail twitching. …

Last night the air was warm, but the stars gleamed like steel. This morning it's overcast and cold. New splashes of yellow in the birches. …

Up too early, I sit out front and watch the full moon moving in and out of thin clouds: moments of clarity interspersed with bleariness. …

The Morning Porch/Patio