Friday September 20, 2019

Dave Bonta September 20, 2019

The usual parade of jets overhead. On the brown lawn, my partner is painting her climate strike sign green and blue.

A spliff-shaped cloud drifts past. The rose bush reminds me of the old blues lyric: The way you wear them dresses, the sun keeps shining through... …

Off to the northeast, a thin band of clear sky for the dawn to tint. A squirrel drops a walnut from the treetops. The catbird starts to mew. …

Blue sky; the scars from early-morning jets heal quickly. A male Carolina wren's fulsome singing elicits as usual the female's terse zzzzip! …

A dead hornet lies on her back beside my chair with her six legs folded neatly over her thorax. At the woods' edge, a rain of yellow leaves. …

Thick fog at mid-morning. The sudden cry of a Canada goose right above the trees, the sound of its wingbeats. The squirrels crying back. …

A cloudless sky. In the bright sunlight, the tattered remnants of webworm nests gleam like flags of surrender at the top of the walnut tree. …

A honeybee lands on the porch railing, and seconds later, a hornet lands four inches away. When the bee takes flight, so does the hornet. …

The trees at the edge of the woods are now an almost even mix of green and yellow leaves—until the sun comes out and turns them all to gold. …

At the woods' edge, the yellowest birch seethes with small birds—kinglets, I think. But by the time I fetch binoculars, the tree is still. …

Thick fog at daybreak, as if the bright moon of 2am had spread a kind of mildew over the mountain. Train whistle. A nuthatch's nasal call. …

At first light, the soft wickering of migrant wood thrushes. A deer snorts three times, and suddenly I'm seeing a bear in every shadow. …

Another gray morning. High against the clouds, a pair of ravens exchange triple croaks. The chipmunk in the garden scratches behind one ear. …

The Morning Porch/Patio