Plummer’s Hollow – Page 394

November 24, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Mid-morning, and many of the feeder birds are sitting quietly in the treetops, silhouetted against the whitening sky. Bright smudge of sun.

November 23, 2008 by Dave Bonta

The moon inches upward through the trees with the earth’s glowing shadow between its horns. Two train whistles converge, one high, one low.

November 22, 2012November 22, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Snowflakes in the air: the small, light variety that fall at ten degrees below freezing. They drift sideways, glistening in the sun.

November 21, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Another half-inch of snow on the ground, on the porch, on the horizontal limbs at the forest edge: pale arms outstreched in the darkness.

November 20, 2012November 20, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Cold, gray, and windy, with a new half-inch of snow. The only flicker of warmth is a chickadee’s call—the pilot light in a stone-cold oven.

November 19, 2012November 19, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Clear sky, and the meadow white with frost: an almost-winter morning. Juncos forage at the edge of the woods, wings flashing in the sun.

November 18, 2008 by Dave Bonta

A three-point buck emerges from the woods, hooves crunching through the icy seep, the sky pink behind him and ahead, the blood-red hill.

November 17, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Fresh snow, but not enough to turn the hillside white. Like an old man with bushy brows, the earth peeks out from under every arched leaf.

November 16, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Under the cover of high winds, the feral cat goes hunting without setting off the usual alarms. Airborne oak leaves ascend into the clouds.

November 15, 2012November 15, 2008 by Dave Bonta

I sit in the dark listening to the downpour, trying to pick out all the different instruments: roof, road, weeds, trees, leaf litter, creek.

November 14, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Thick fog prolongs the dawn light for hours. A screech owl is answered by a pileated woodpecker, dirge giving way to second-line ululation.

November 13, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Through a curtain of cold rain, the lilac’s thinning collection of stamps from the countries of summer, green-gold against the gray woods.

November 12, 2012November 12, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Two white-tailed deer leap through the dried goldenrod and asters beyond the springhouse, surfacing, diving—dolphins in a brown sea.

November 11, 2012November 11, 2008 by Dave Bonta

At first light, a siren goes off and doesn’t stop, a high steady note as if from a Tibetan prayer bowl. Please God, I mutter, make it stop.