Dave Bonta

July 11, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Pursued by its parent onto a dead branch, a vireo fledgling: smaller and paler, like a ghost who must be fed. The wide-eyed fleabane below.

July 10, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A wood thrush sings at dawn; the trees glow faintly pink. What is it about the 3rd-quarter moon that makes it look especially edible?

April 15, 2013July 9, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Thin fog in the corner of the field. A Cooper’s hawk fledgling responds to its parent, a hot cry, a knife cry, a glossy cry, a soul cry.

July 8, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Garlic tops still point at the ground like dysfunctional minarets. Goldfinches weave through the canopy, circling the thistle-spined sun.

July 7, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Another cool morning, but the haze portends heat. The wind carries a sweetness I can’t identify. Slow and careful footsteps up in the woods.

July 6, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A catbird dive-bombs a small buck with stubby velvet antlers. He runs toward a doe who chases him back, her fawn dancing along behind.

On the steep slope below my parents…

July 5, 2009 by Dave Bonta

On the steep slope below my parents’ house, a doe sweeps the deerflies from her twin fawns’ spotted backs with her long, rough tongue.

July 4, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Chipping sparrows feed a fledgling in the grass next to the wall, making much too much noise—even a deer would nosh on such a fine morsel.

July 3, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A low, leaden sky. Leaves blow backwards. A robin on a dead branch at the edge of the yard turns to face the woods.

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.