solstice

Wednesday December 21, 2016

Dave Bonta December 21, 2016

As the clouds thin, the flat-white ground acquires a gloss. Trees grow tenuous shadows, improbably long and skinny on this shortest of days.

Sunday December 21, 2014

Dave Bonta December 21, 2014 1

Jays, crows, and a raven: the solstice soundtrack. When I open my laptop, a red bead of a ladybug is huddled among the black keys.

Tuesday December 21, 2010

Dave Bonta December 21, 2010 5

Solstice sunrise turns the western ridge red as an altar. A brown creeper fishes in all the dark valleys of the walnut tree’s bark.

Monday June 21, 2010

Dave Bonta June 21, 2010

Solstice sun in the treetops. The lilac quivers as two titmice move through, grooming it for insects. A fawn dances out into the meadow.

Saturday December 22, 2007

Dave Bonta December 22, 2007

Yakety-yak on the porch, dee dee dee in the birches, and everywhere a drip drip drip drip drip: gray solstice morning.

September 23, 2017
Blue sky; the scars from early-morning jets heal quickly. A male Carolina wren's fulsome singing elicits as usual the female's terse zzzzip!
September 23, 2016
A dead hornet lies on her back beside my chair with her six legs folded neatly over her thorax. At the woods' edge, a rain of yellow leaves.
September 23, 2015
Thick fog at mid-morning. The sudden cry of a Canada goose right above the trees, the sound of its wingbeats. The squirrels crying back.
September 23, 2014
A cloudless sky. In the bright sunlight, the tattered remnants of webworm nests gleam like flags of surrender at the top of the walnut tree.
September 23, 2013
A honeybee lands on the porch railing, and seconds later, a hornet lands four inches away. When the bee takes flight, so does the hornet.
September 23, 2012
The trees at the edge of the woods are now an almost even mix of green and yellow leaves—until the sun comes out and turns them all to gold.
September 23, 2011
At the woods' edge, the yellowest birch seethes with small birds—kinglets, I think. But by the time I fetch binoculars, the tree is still.
September 23, 2010
Thick fog at daybreak, as if the bright moon of 2am had spread a kind of mildew over the mountain. Train whistle. A nuthatch's nasal call.
September 23, 2009
At first light, the soft wickering of migrant wood thrushes. A deer snorts three times, and suddenly I'm seeing a bear in every shadow.
September 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.