icicles

Friday February 05, 2021

Dave Bonta February 5, 2021 2

One degree above freezing, and the last icicle has turned dull as the eye of a dead fish. As I watch, it trembles in the breeze and lets go.

Dave Bonta February 8, 2020

Eyes shut to the strong sun, I watch the shadow-flicker of meltwater dripping from the eaves, the icicles letting go like vestigial tails.

Dave Bonta March 9, 2019

Sunny and warm. Meltwater drips furiously onto the broken bones of icicles. The deep blue sky of late morning is all but empty of jets.

Dave Bonta January 20, 2019

Storm past, the temperature is plunging, just as they predicted. The new icicles aren’t even done dripping. They sway in the bitter wind.

Dave Bonta November 23, 2018 2

Sunlight brightens as the thin clouds move off. Icicles begin to drop from the eaves, their shattering more elegant-sounding than any glass.

Dave Bonta April 10, 2018

In the strong sun, tiny icicles grow at the edge of the porch roof only to fall again, like baby teeth fed on the milk of last night’s snow.

Dave Bonta March 22, 2018

The new snowpack turns blindingly bright as the high, spring sun beats down. Icicles drop on to the porch roof with muffled thuds.

Dave Bonta February 10, 2018

Two degrees above freezing and I feel over-dressed. Icicles drop from the eaves. A Carolina wren sings his “tea kettle” song in a minor key.

Dave Bonta January 15, 2018

In the weak sun, the icicles on the eaves are dull as plastic. A fine fur of frost coating the tree branches reminds me of my housekeeping.

Dave Bonta March 17, 2017

I take off my hat to sunbathe as icicles drop, turning the roof toothless. The brass section tunes up: jay, cardinal, song sparrow.