Late morning, and it’s still not fully light—the clouds are too heavy. The sound of rain on the dry leaves like fat sizzling in a fryer.
Dave Bonta
Tuesday November 26, 2019
Warmish. The sound of squirrel teeth chiseling into a black walnut. The red plastic hooks where hummingbird feeders hung shine in the sun.
Monday November 25, 2019
Down in the old corral, a song sparrow sings the first part of his song and stops, twice. The cronk of a raven flying just below the sun.
Sunday November 24, 2019
A skim of wet snow came in with the cold front. The big dial thermometer shivers on the wall—vibrations from the furnace under the floor.
Saturday November 23, 2019
Clouds slowly vanish in the blue—like my own puffs of breath, but slower. Chickadees; a nuthatch. The forest floor goes from glow to shine.
Friday November 22, 2019
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.
Thursday November 21, 2019
A hollow, rasping grunt: either a raven or a buck in rut. The pileated woodpecker cackling in flight falls silent as soon as she lands.
Wednesday November 20, 2019
With birds, a cold and overcast day isn’t gloomy. Their bright chirps and taps. The flashes of white when slate-colored juncos take wing.
Tuesday November 19, 2019
Faint mist in the woods as last night’s frost burns off in the sun. At the edge of the meadow, birds scold something hidden in the weeds.
Monday November 18, 2019
The damp silence inside a cloud, broken only by a pileated woodpecker’s muffled tapping and the distant caw of a crow.