Dave Bonta

A Juvenal's duskywing butterfly comes dancing out of the woods like a small brown leaf. Zigzag ripple in the grass where a chipmunk forages.

Dave Bonta

Each bird I see has something in its beak: wren—a streamer of dried grass, chickadee—a seed, towhee—a bundle of stalks, grackle—a millipede.

Dave Bonta

The new black cherry leaves, unmarred by any insect, are showing their pale backs to the sky, like hatchling fish unsure of how to swim.

qarrtsiluni literary magazine

Lissa Kiernan's poem "Witness" from our Animals in the City issue has been made into a videopoem http://ur1.ca/dwgux by @Swoon_Bildos

Dave Bonta

"...gradually changing as new singers add novel variations." http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Indigo_Bunting/lifehistory @CornellBirds

Dave Bonta

"...nearly identical songs. A local song may persist up to 20 years..."

Dave Bonta

"Buntings a few hundred yards apart generally sing different songs, while those in the same 'song neighborhood' share..."

Dave Bonta

"Indigo Buntings learn their songs as youngsters, from nearby males but not from their fathers..."

Dave Bonta

Non-stop noise from the indigo buntings. One of them drops into the deer-ravaged rosebush and flutters madly, subduing some luckless insect.

Dave Bonta

Sunny and hot. A small ichneumon wasp on the shady side of a column actually stops vibrating for a few seconds and is completely still.

Dave Bonta

Just posted the last section of a 12-part prose poem or poetic essay, "Bear Medicine": http://www.vianegativa.us/series/bear-medicine/

Dave Bonta

Clouds darken. The wind carries the sound of lawnmowers. When the rain starts, it feels like an unresolved chord finally returning home.

Dave Bonta

From the herb bed, I hear the squeaks of a hummingbird sipping from the columbine. Then he's in my face, gorget like a small red torch.

Dave Bonta

Then it began to snow. (Seriously. At 43F.)

Dave Bonta

A chickadee lands on the cherry snag and chitters till his mate emerges from the hole. He gives her a bit of food and they fly off together.

Dave Bonta

For the Linden Moth by James Dickey http://is.gd/ETJxDc Though a compulsive liar & the author of Deliverance, Dickey was a hell of a poet.

Dave Bonta

The red porch floor is pocked with yellowish green pollen. In the garden, a red crabapple petal is plastered to a witch hazel leaf.

Dave Bonta

I feel it before I see it: in the half-light, the intense green of new leaves. The sound of field sparrows, towhees, spring peepers, rain.

Dave Bonta

The rattle of a chipping sparrow. The cypress spurge smells so sweet, I resolve not to pull it from my herb bed until it's done blooming.

Dave Bonta

When the mid-morning rain eases up, the phoebe comes out to hawk for gnats, and I hear the first wood thrush singing—those pure, sad notes.