Friday February 08, 2019

Dave Bonta February 8, 2019

Last night’s torrential rain has given way to wind, sunlight shimmering on the flooded stream and the waxy leaves of mountain laurel.

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No frost yet; the purple geranium still flowers. Reflected sun from an upstairs window illuminates one yellow grape leaf. …

Dark clouds moving in from the west; this sun won't last long. A breeze carries the sweet, pungent smell of ozone mingled with decay. …

The big windthrown locust tree is nearly invisible in the high weeds. Out back, an old snake skin flutters from the branches of a spicebush. …

Cold and mostly clear. A pileated woodpecker riot of one vents its fury in a glowing, golden canopy of chestnut oaks. …

Weak sun. A large V of Canada geese comes low over the trees, arrowing due north—non-migratory locals, their cries full of wild longing. …

Just inside the woods, a white spear-tip where a maple's top snapped off last June, sad as the spikes on the buck standing in the driveway. …

In the dim light, the sound of eight bone knives being whetted against a sapling. The buck straightens up and gives me a baleful look. …

A wet, white fur on the fallen elm limbs and the statue they destroyed. A squirrel scrambles up the snag and disappears into the den hole. …

Hoarfrost on every grass blade, branch and twig, as if the world has suddenly aged overnight. A white-throated sparrow's tremulous song. …

Below the porch, a dot of pink: a very late dame's-rocket blooming the day after a hard frost. A brown creeper inspects a small walnut tree. …

Peeled flesh of a black walnut leaks pus onto the sidewalk, more indelible than a blood stain. A woodpecker cackles from a bone-white snag. …

6:20 a.m. All through the newly bare branches of the black walnut tree beside the driveway, the stars glitter, too high for any squirrel. …

The Morning Porch/Patio