Friday November 22, 2019

Dave Bonta November 22, 2019 1

After a windy night, the whole horizon is visible beyond the trees. I watch one of the last oak leaves float down, rocking, taking its time.

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It's our local Christmas Bird Count, so every drip of cold rain or moving shape off in the fog might be a bird. But none are. …

A cold gray day. Juncos forage on the road and in the yard where a deer has dug. The dull knocks of a pileated woodpecker trepanning an oak. …

A nuthatch and chickadee gadding about together, poking into everything. Nuthatch flies past my nose; chickadee balks and circles the house. …

Sometime in the night, the rabbit ventured out for a quick snack on lilac bark. Its tracks are half buried by still more snow. …

Thin clouds; the sun is a crayon-yellow smudge. The excited yells of a seven-year-old echo off the ridge. A wren tut-tuts. …

Two pileated woodpeckers cackle back and forth. Patches of moss at the woods' edge seem to glow in the dim light. The smell of rain. …

I don seven layers of clothing to sunbathe on the porch. My chair has slid to the northeast end, its back to the prevailing wind. …

Dark clouds. Steady drum of meltwater. A locomotive with the low note of its whistle stuck open like a bagpipe drone moans through the gap. …

Two deer dash down the slope and up into the woods, turn around and dash back. A repeat performance five minutes later ends in a thicket. …

The sun peeks out for half a minute from under a lid of clouds. The downy woodpecker finds a resonant bone of locust and rattles it hard. …

The Morning Porch/Patio