Dave Bonta

Freezing rain on new slush—a metallic sound. In the driveway, the herringbone patterns of ATV tracks from last night’s pair of trespassers.

When I first come out, the yard is a giant gyre of birds. They soon segregate themselves: sparrows to the meadow, finches into the birches.

Mid-morning, and the snow on the roof has sprouted tendrils of ice reaching for the ground. They drip; they sway in the breeze; they let go.

Rain. The snow’s almost gone, but the forest floor has been altered: no longer scruffy and mammalian, but sleek as a red-backed salamander.

I come out during a snow squall and am quickly camouflaged in white. Twenty minutes later, the sky is blue and I’m squinting into the sun.