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.
Dave Bonta
Bright sunshine after a night of thunderstorms. Four deer—two does and two fawns—run through the steaming woods.
Beside the springhouse, the twittering zoom of a hummingbird’s courtship dive: from sunlight into cattail shadows and back. Tanager song.
Soft applause from the road bank: a doe’s ears flapping as she shakes her head to chase away the flies.
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.
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.
The black-robed cowbird at the top of the dead elm burbles authoritatively, like the Grand Ayatollah of the yard taking credit for the rain.
In the half-light, the soft crunch of gravel: a bear-shaped shadow ambles up the road, turns onto my walk, stops in front of my door. Waits.