Sunday November 01, 2020

Dave Bonta November 1, 2020

The tulip tree next to the springhouse is nearly bare, its last few leaves waving like four-fingered cartoon hands as the sky darkens to rain.

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Overcast and still. Ravens up in the woods sound as if they've discovered a gut pile, red and yellow viscera glistening among fallen leaves. …

The silence of a power outage gives way to the rumble of a generator. High overhead, the resident pair of ravens croak back and forth. …

Two patches of sunlight side-by-side on the myrtle: one direct from the sun that glistens, one reflected from a window that merely glows. …

The barberry beside the stream is turning from the inside out: under a green cloak, salmon pink, blood-red beads, the hurdy-gurdy of a wren. …

Last night's heavy frost retreats to the shade. By 10:30, sparrows are bathing in the stream, shaking themselves dry in the sunlit dogwood. …

Unlike last night's full moon, even this dim smudge of a sun is painful to look at. The sound of rodent teeth chiseling a black walnut. …

The brackens in my yard have turned from brown to burgundy. High in a walnut tree, a squirrel checks every webworm tent for unfallen nuts. …

Warmer outside than in: I emerge like Lazarus from the tomb, shaking worms of sleep from my eyes. A groundhog hauls ass into the tall weeds. …

When the fog lifts, the sun makes its nest in the treetops. I sit with a newspaper folded on my knee, listening to a chipmunk's metronome. …

Heavy frost. In the clear, still air, black birch leaves fall like rain. A pileated woodpecker dives cackling into the treetops. …

First sign of dawn: the moonlight on the leaves of the cherry tree begins to lose its luster. A distant military jet breaks the stillness. …

The Morning Porch