Rose-tinged feathers puffed out against the fresh snow, the mourning doves look delicious! Their wingbeats are a marriage of fife and drum.
Dave Bonta
Sunday December 30, 2007
Two squirrels chasing around the trunk of a tulip poplar so quickly, I swear there’s a third. Whose tail is whose? Which one is in heat?
Saturday December 29, 2007
I am blocking on common bird calls—with each sneeze I forget another name. Behind the trees, the sky is white and gold, blue and gray.
Friday December 28, 2007
The stream this morning is full of auguries, such as: “If you want to be master of all you survey, live in a ravine.” Carolina wren song.
Thursday December 27, 2007
Chickadees and nuthatches are exchanging news, each in its own language as always. I’m watching snow, but hearing the hiss of sleet.
Wednesday December 26, 2007
The birds eating seeds on the back steps of the other house all fly at once, the rush of wings like a dovetail shuffle of cards.
Tuesday December 25, 2007
Christmas—the quietest morning of the year. The stream is a full chorus. A pileated woodpecker flaps overhead, cheering itself on.
Monday December 24, 2007
Cold and windy. A chickadee’s two-note spring song echoes off the ridge. Behind the trees, floating above the horizon, one yellow cloud.
Sunday December 23, 2007
Thick fog at dawn, gray against the snow. Slate-colored juncos call back and forth: Where are you? A wind comes up.
Saturday December 22, 2007
Yakety-yak on the porch, dee dee dee in the birches, and everywhere a drip drip drip drip drip: gray solstice morning.
Friday December 21, 2007
The sun behind a wash of cirrus seems almost approachable: a bonfire, the eye of a wolf. All the small birds of winter calling at once.
Thursday December 20, 2007
Distant sound of a rasp on wood: the porcupine’s last meal of the night. In the springhouse lawn, the silhouette of a cat taking a shit.
Wednesday December 19, 2007
With the ground white, squirrels are visible hundreds of feet up in the woods. And when I shut my eyes, the trees reappear on my eyelids.
Tuesday December 18, 2007
Blue sky carved up by the ley lines of industrial man. Who else leaves such arrow-strait trails for mile after mile? Only Coyote.