Friday March 22, 2019

Dave Bonta March 22, 2019

The banks of moss above the road shine bright after last night’s rain. Two chickadees sing their spring songs as snowflakes fill the air.

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In the red center of a berry-laden barberry bush, a male cardinal turns all about, gorging. When he flies, so much of its red goes with him. …

Snowflakes land on the dog's thick brown fur and take a long time to melt. I begin to look differently at the brown, snow-dusted hillside. …

The sun is a bright nipple in milk-white clouds. On the ground, a new, thin fur—what deer hunters like to call a good tracking snow. …

Overcast and windy. Two nuthatches descend tree trunks on either side of the road, calling back and forth as they glean in the furrows. …

At first the snow falls straight and serious. But as it thins, they seem to lose their direction and wander back and forth, these flakes. …

Pale patches on the upper sides of branches, almost like snow: lichens opening their pores to the rain and fog. My left eyelid twitches. …

Clear and cold. I shut my eyes against the sun, and the lace-work of tree branches reappears in white on the red canvas of my eyelids. …

Emily Dickinson's 180th birthday. The sky's flat whiteness matches the ground: the blank of a page, of self-erasure, of astonishment. …

Yesterday's slush has grown hard as cartilage. I watch a small flock of snowbirds hopping around on it, unfazed by the bitter wind. …

Rain and fog. Only the low rumbly sounds break through: a jet, a train. Sitting in the dark, it's almost possible to believe in isolation. …

The cooing turned out to be a raven—later on, it was barking like a dog. Rifle season is over, and the mountain is littered with gut piles. …

The Morning Porch/Patio