Plummer’s Hollow

Tuesday December 18, 2018

Dave Bonta December 18, 2018 0

Clear and cold. Blazing through a forest’s worth of treetops, the rising sun looks feathery, a bit disheveled.

Dave Bonta December 17, 2018 0

Scattered blue holes in the clouds open and close again, despite what feels like a clearing wind. A jay does his best imitation of a hawk.

Dave Bonta December 16, 2018 0

It rained so hard last night, I dreamed the mountain had turned into a lake. Now it’s merely drizzling. Small birds forage in the treetops.

Dave Bonta December 15, 2018 0

It’s our local Christmas Bird Count, so every drip of cold rain or moving shape off in the fog might be a bird. But none are.

Dave Bonta December 14, 2018 0

Warmish and almost sunny, with mist between the trees. The chickadees and wrens are denouncing something hidden in the small hollow maple.

Dave Bonta December 13, 2018 2

I’m reading about the haiku poet who helped lead the Rape of Nanjing. Snow melt begins to drip from the top roof: muffled artillery fire.

Dave Bonta December 12, 2018 0

The scrabbling of squirrel claws on black locust bark: someone’s in heat. The shadow of a porch column crosses my face: it must be noon.

Dave Bonta December 11, 2018 0

The wind sounds even colder hissing through the leaves that still cling to an oak at the woods’ edge. I pull down my cap against the sun.

Dave Bonta December 10, 2018 0

In the red center of a berry-laden barberry bush, a male cardinal turns all about, gorging. When he flies, so much of its red goes with him.

Dave Bonta December 9, 2018 1

On the snow-covered log beside the stream, the baby’s-handprint tracks of raccoons. A wren above the water burbling in counterpoint.