Dave Bonta

Sun in the tops of the tall locust trees. Even in blossom, they look disreputable—as if they’d been targeted by a passing flock of geese.

5:20. The bat returns to his roost in the crack between the porch roof and the house like a handkerchief returning to its pocket.

The gibbous moon no sooner clears the trees than the sun comes up. First crystal-clear morning in weeks, and I’m off to New Jersey.