Thursday October 17, 2019

Dave Bonta October 17, 2019

Wren song and power saws. At the base of the firethorn, the small, umbrella-shaped sex organs of a saprobic fungus cluster in the rain.

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The lonely barking dog goes on and on, day after day. A newly opened rose on a bush I think of as ancient, though it's younger than me. …

Despite the heat, the oriole's enthusiasm is undiminished. The walking onions, like ostriches of fable, are stretching to bury their heads. …

Cloudy and cool. The springhouse phoebes hawk flies and mate at the edge of the woods, trailed by two fledglings with beaks agape. …

The hollow tock of a chipmunk calling from within the rock wall. A chickadee perched atop the stump opens his wings wide to shake off rain. …

Hot and humid. A lone 17-year cicada's uncanny call. Where last night a drunk intruder stumbled in the weeds, a cloud of gnats, hovering. …

A mourning cloak butterfly circles the porch and yard three times, going behind my chair, including me in whatever it means to outline. …

The first four peonies burst their buds in the night and open to a sky of hazy pink. From under the house, a cat's hollow cough. …

Pale bones of the dead elm, standing at the edge of the yard like an emissary from Lent amidst a Mardi Gras of green, reach into fog. …

The flower heads on the white lilac are half-brown now. Two phoebes take turns flying into the bush, momentarily quelling insistent peeps. …

The Morning Porch/Patio