bluegrasspoet's favorite notices

Dave Bonta

A wool-gray sky. This is not the blue morning we were promised! But tell it to the bluebirds warbling above the garage.

Dave Bonta

Each blanketing of snow so far this winter has happened while we slept. How superstitious to insist that it all must've fallen from the sky!

loopy

Two women smoking outside school, leaning close, heads inclined like lovers. On passing, the shared passion proves to be gossip. #smallstone

Dave Bonta

Cool and damp. The low-hanging clouds catch on the treetops. Crows signal their locations with almost every wingbeat.

Dave Bonta

A wren sits grooming itself in the sun on the peak of the springhouse roof, fluffing out its breast feathers, probing under its wings.

Dave Bonta

Clear sky, brigh sun, and the temperature well about freezing. A crow's shadow scuds over what's left of the snow like a dark promise.

Dave Bonta

A steady hum of traffic from over the ridge spoils the pre-dawn quiet, just as the snow on the ground sullies the darkness.

loopy

Transparent lines squirm through the heating water like frantic weather fronts over a blank map. Faster, faster, boiling, gone. #smallstone

Dave Bonta

Warm, overcast and damp. The last bit of bark on the dead elm tree glows pale green on the outer half of a limb, a four-fingered glove.

Stav Prodromou

Forget this ratcheting up to the next level. I think in 2012, I want to take things back to the last level.

Dave Bonta

Sleet rattles on roof and garden, yard and road, weeds and woods, like seasoning from some indiscriminate eater of a bare-bones feast.

Dave Bonta

Snow blowing sideways. As the wind changes direction, two dead trees fallen onto the living take turns complaining: first eeee, then ahhh.

Dave Bonta

At the bend of the road where the trail enters the woods, a flock of juncos chittering and picking small stones for their crops. #smallstone

Dave Bonta

The sound of an altercation among the goldfinches--like a dozen jazz soloists playing at once. The only cloud in the sky finds the sun.

Dave Bonta

Every branch and twig is white with rime, and overhead, a latticework of contrails. Three crows skim the treetops on their way to a mobbing.

Dave Bonta

Fog. High in a skeletal birch, the silhouettes of ten goldfinches are almost the right size for leaves, moving in their own slow wind.

Dave Bonta

Indian Summer is over; it's cold again. A squirrel bending over to groom its genitals tumbles off the branch and lands on the next one down.