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Monday February 10, 2020

Dave Bonta February 10, 2020

The sun peeks through a hole in the clouds, turning the drizzle into a feathery shimmer—visual equivalent of the finches’ endless warbling.

Posted in Plummer's Hollow
Tagged American goldfinch, house finch, rain
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On this date

    January 22, 2020

    Classic January morning: clear sky, very still, very cold. A lone crow's harangue. The furnace stopping in mid-rumble as the power goes out. …

    January 22, 2019

    Silent and glittery. Squirrels bound over the icy crust, passing between the trees' long, skinny shadows like loom shuttles. …

    January 22, 2018

    The earth is brown again, and the hillside hidden in fog. A one-minute rain shower. Nuthatches chatter. The sun makes a bleary appearance. …

    January 22, 2017

    ‪The clouds that settled in yesterday haven't lifted, their slow drift barely perceptible through the shifting clarity of the trees.‬ …

    January 22, 2015

    Despite the wind, yesterday's snow still clings to the trees, like the sleep I keep trying to rub from my eyes. A wren's ascending rattle. …

    January 22, 2014

    Deep cold; nothing stirring but the wind. Clouds of snow blown off the trees are back-lit by the rising sun. …

    January 22, 2013

    Bitter cold with a wind. The hillside seems unusually still, and after a while I realize it's because there aren't any squirrels out. …

    January 22, 2012

    The dark-eyed juncos flock to the two dark wounds in all this white: the plowed road's bare stone and the thin, quiet trickle of a stream. …

    January 22, 2011

    Intense cold, and a stillness so deep the trains can barely be heard. A cardinal flickers like a pilot light under the bridal wreath bush. …

    January 22, 2010

    An hour before dawn, whose footsteps are those on the hard crust of snow, first tiptoeing, then running about? Mice, I think. No: sleet. …

    January 22, 2009

    Fingers of sunlight stretch across the yard. The resident naturalist climbs the trail into the woods with the aid of a long thin stick. …

    January 22, 2008

    Sun thinned by a fleet of clouds the color of dirty dishwater. The wind in the pines is virtually indistinguishable from distant traffic. …

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Cover of Ice Mountain with a linocut of a big ridgetop tree.
What I do after I sit on the porch. One winter and spring's daily walks distilled into short poems with linocut illustrations by Beth Adams.

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