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.

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Bright sun after last night's long-awaited rain. A chipmunk races down the road with cheek pouches bulging. A wood pewee's melancholy call. …

The feral garlic top-heads have split their skins, unveiling clusters of beady eyes. The sun's a glowing smudge. It's going to be hot. …

Tiny ants are digging holes in the tansy flowers—yellow eyes with seething black pupils. A single-propeller plane: the sound of a clear day. …

This morning it hits me: how silent the woods have become now with most of the migrants done singing their fierce but temporary attachments. …

It starts to rain. A hover fly lands on the rim of my mug, its thin, yellow-banded abdomen twitching like a nervous and anorexic bee. …

Two years later, the branch still dangles upside-down above the forest floor. A hummingbird pauses over a tansy and taps it with her bill. …

A bat swoops past my face—a puff of wind. The interminable whistle of a train creeping toward the crossing. A sliver of moon. …

The Morning Porch