Plummer’s Hollow – Page 392

April 22, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Another cold morning. During a pause in the robin’s song, I can hear the spring peepers’ tireless ME ME ME ME ME down in the marsh.

April 21, 2013April 21, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Crows mobbing an owl, the sun breaking through clouds, a field sparrow’s cup filling to the brim… April is still an unknown country to me.

April 20, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Hard rain with a bit of wind. But dreariness is impossible with so many variations on yellow: spicebush, forsythia, daffodils, pussy willow.

April 19, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Gray sky. Distant drumming of a grouse—so faint, it could be the mountain’s own heartbeat. A rabbit in the lilac scratches behind its ear.

April 18, 2009 by Dave Bonta

First morning without long johns: my legs feel like orphans in their tunnels of denim. The air is full of gnats and the gobbling of turkeys.

April 17, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Rattle and rasp from a hole in the eaves where the starlings are moving in. A pair of ravens low over the ridge. The sun’s blazing nest.

April 16, 2009 by Dave Bonta

An orange tabby appears at the side of the porch, and we stare at each other with alarm. Sun spreads through the treetops like an epidemic.

April 15, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Another cold and rainy morning. A white spot up in the woods is nothing but foam on a black birch trunk. How long until the shadbush bloom?

April 14, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Beside the rosette of mullein leaves like thumbless felt mittens beaded with rainwater, the feral cat pauses to yowl.

April 13, 2009 by Dave Bonta

White sky, weak sun, a hollow knocking from the quarry. A winter wren holds forth below the old corrall, rambling, introspective.

April 12, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A ray of sun penetrating the lilac illuminates the two daffodils at the base of its hind legs, and the dog statue stands on yellow stars.

April 11, 2009 by Dave Bonta

In the cold rain, a pair of phoebes sit on a branch of the lilac overhanging my sidewalk, flicking their tails and gazing at the portico.

April 10, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Twenty minutes after the feral cat disappeared under the porch, the squirrel still scolds. Rain is a soft patter of lead shot—or so I wish.

April 9, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Myrtle, speedwell, daffodils, bittercress—who cares if it’s 26 degrees? At the edge of the woods, a solitary vireo’s slow and dreamy song.