Dave Bonta

July 2, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Sitting in great discomfort due to a sprained back, I regard a deer-stripped black raspberry cane, naked except for its thorns.

July 1, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Everything drips; I don’t notice that the rain has stopped until the sun comes out. A burst of song from phoebe, catbird and Carolina wren.

June 30, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Just inside the woods’ edge, three mushrooms weather the downpour, umbrellas for no one. The soaked bark of a maple turns patchy blue.

June 29, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Wood thrush, when you go back to Honduras, don’t just forage in the campo. Sing like you do here. Let them know how we mourn.

June 28, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The pasture rose in front of my wall bears two white blossoms: bindweed raising its flared trumpets to the white sky. The smell of rain.

June 27, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The red climbing rose is just coming into bloom, but it’s the garlic tops I’m admiring, those coiled green snakes with the heads of birds.

June 26, 2021June 26, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Bright sunshine after a night of thunderstorms. Four deer—two does and two fawns—run through the steaming woods.

June 25, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Beside the springhouse, the twittering zoom of a hummingbird’s courtship dive: from sunlight into cattail shadows and back. Tanager song.

June 24, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Another cloudless, cool morning. Two large craneflies joined back-to-back like Dr. Doolittle’s pushmi-pullyu float sedately past.

June 23, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The catbird sails in and out of the lilac without interrupting his stream of song. Oak leaves glossy as mirrors; the sky so blue it hurts.

June 22, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Soft applause from the road bank: a doe’s ears flapping as she shakes her head to chase away the flies.

June 21, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Up early enough to catch the end of the shortest night of the year, alive with wind and gurgling water, fireflies, a lone spring peeper.

June 20, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A hummingbird grooms itself in the middle of a downpour while a phoebe plucks insects from the side of the dead elm, hovering in place.

September 12, 2025June 19, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Another dark morning. The wood pewee makes a rare visit to the edge of the yard, sings one, sad note, and snaps a brown moth out of the air.