Fog. The ants who tend the peony buds have been replaced by drops of water—all but one, who moves slow as an astronaut on a strange planet.
garden
4/30/2009
1/1/2009
11/9/2008
Cold and overcast. Four silent bluebirds drop into the spicebush in my herb garden and begin gobbling the blood-red drupes, stones and all.
10/3/2008
A song sparrow sings, and suddenly it’s spring again. In the front garden, under browning leaves, the witch hazel dangles spidery blooms.
9/26/2008
A large flock of geese somewhere above the clouds. The purple asters in the garden are folded shut like sea anemones with overly long arms.
9/23/2008
Another gray morning. High against the clouds, a pair of ravens exchange triple croaks. The chipmunk in the garden scratches behind one ear.
9/14/2008
Pulling rampant stiltgrass out of the garden next to the porch to create a spot for a potted yellow mum, I uncover the jawbone of a horse.
Cool and overcast. In the garden…
Cool and overcast. In the garden, a white trumpet above the bindweed’s heart-shaped leaves. A millipede explores the toe of my running shoe.
7/9/2008
In the side garden, the first bergamot is in bloom, purple dreadlocks shooting from a dusty inflorescence and a necklace of purpled green.
7/8/2008
The little wood satyr I first spotted yesterday flutters up from the side garden, yellow-rimmed eyespots like dim headlights in the fog.
6/18/2008
51°F. In the side garden, my clump of New York asters has been flattened in the night, stripped stalks splayed to all points of the compass.
6/9/2008
In a hurry this morning, I go over to the garden, looking for anything of interest. Crickets. An old man with a stick comes down the road.
6/4/2008
Foggy morning. A short-lived bright period brings a faint sound of traffic from I-99. I hear the hummingbird’s small motor in the garden.