Plummer’s Hollow – Page 390

January 19, 2009 by Dave Bonta

With each new snowfall the ground grows more uniform, our footprints grow harder to read, and cries die quickly, as in a soundproofed room.

January 18, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A titmouse lands on a snowy branch and puffs out the white down on its breast. From above the spring, a chickadee’s two-note song: hey ho.

January 17, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Sparrow tracks in the thin snow under my chair: I see dandelion seeds on the wind. The house shivers all over when the furnace kicks on.

January 16, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Clear at sunrise, and so cold the mucous freezes in my nostrils. Trees pop at random intervals. A good day to be a black bear, fast asleep.

January 15, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Leaf-sized shards of snow sail out of the woods. The black cat wallows up to her chest, pausing every few steps to shake one of her legs.

January 14, 2013January 14, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Bright moonlight, bitter cold. The wind has erased all footprints, and the creaking tree has changed its tune to a dry ah… ah… ah…

January 13, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Come crow and save us from a world without shadows, white as a motel towel, a rented room, the coats of orderlies in a home for the insane.

January 12, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The moon comes out, and there’s the rabbit, crouching next to the lilac. It races across the driveway and disappears into the cattails.

January 11, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Spots of blood in the snow at the woods’ edge. An odd, foot-long circumflex hangs in the top branches of the lilac like a snowy mustache.

January 10, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Falling snow so fine it lends little more than a shimmer to the air, like heat waves above a summer street except for the downward drift.

January 9, 2009 by Dave Bonta

At first light, a rare glimpse of a rabbit below the porch. I can hear the ice shattering as it chews on a clump of dead brome grass.

January 8, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A skim of snow on the ice: dangerous magic. Branches rattle in the wind, and there’s a new, nearly constant creak. The white sky brightens.

January 7, 2009 by Dave Bonta

From the other house, the sound of an unfed avian mob. Four goldfinches land in the ice-covered tree in front of me and cock their heads.

January 6, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Overcast and still, apart from the nasal calls of nuthatches. The few remaining spots of snow resemble nothing so much as blotches of mold.