Dave Bonta

Thursday December 13, 2018

Dave Bonta December 13, 2018 1

I’m reading about the haiku poet who helped lead the Rape of Nanjing. Snow melt begins to drip from the top roof: muffled artillery fire.

Dave Bonta December 12, 2018 0

The scrabbling of squirrel claws on black locust bark: someone’s in heat. The shadow of a porch column crosses my face: it must be noon.

Dave Bonta December 11, 2018 0

The wind sounds even colder hissing through the leaves that still cling to an oak at the woods’ edge. I pull down my cap against the sun.

Dave Bonta December 10, 2018 0

In the red center of a berry-laden barberry bush, a male cardinal turns all about, gorging. When he flies, so much of its red goes with him.

Dave Bonta December 9, 2018 1

On the snow-covered log beside the stream, the baby’s-handprint tracks of raccoons. A wren above the water burbling in counterpoint.

Dave Bonta December 8, 2018 0

In one direction, the waxy chatter of goldfinches; in the other, a mob of crows. I go in before the sun comes out—my legs are too cold.

Dave Bonta December 7, 2018 2

The ground is once again white, and there’s a wind. A dry, brown oak leaf dropping from the sky rocks from side to side like a small boat.

Dave Bonta December 6, 2018 0

Half a degree above freezing, but it’s enough to melt last night’s snow everywhere the weak sunlight reaches. Quiet but for the trains.

Dave Bonta December 5, 2018 0

Under a white sky, the small white car of the meter man, and a heavy frost. Two nuthatches are having a frank exchange of views.

Dave Bonta December 4, 2018 0

Flakes in the air. The weather’s turned cold in time to save the last, shrunken curls of snowbanks, marooned like sea creatures on a beach.