The Celibate Couple Pursued

This entry is part 7 of 12 in the series The Temptations of Solitude

 

in response to the painting by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, from his series The Temptations of Solitude

Who let these two pawns crowd
into a single square? The game
requires that we each defend
our solitude. We have banished
the bird from the tree & the tree
from the horizon. But now

the white knight wrestles
with temptation: can’t he take
the direct route to head them off,
pin them against the straight-
arrow castle, instead of sidling up
in waltz steps like some kind
of goddamned dandy?

The black & white squares begin
to merge — a gray quicksand.
His horse grows scaley,
anadromous, gathers itself
for a leap worthy of Cúchulainn.

The disobedient pair flee
to the far edge of their flat earth
& turn into queens,
resplendent & terrifying.
The watchman bawls
from his tall tower,
Check & Check & Mate.

Easter thrasher


Easter Thrasher from Dave Bonta on Vimeo.

Not too many folks online today, but for those who do happen by, here’s a little video I shot on Friday and today. For some reason, the first brown thrasher to return to the hollow often really likes singing from the top of a small, nondescript walnut tree that pokes out of the barberry hedge next to the shed.

As I’ve mentioned here in the past, brown thrashers are close relatives to mockingbirds and catbirds, and like their cousins, go in for extreme vocal improvisation. The thrasher can be easily distinguished from the others, however, by its tendency to repeat almost every phrase. I like to think of it as a compulsive rhymer.

The Barbarian Brought Down by a Lioness

This entry is part 6 of 12 in the series The Temptations of Solitude

 

in response to the painting by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, from his series The Temptations of Solitude

Did he taste of loneliness, sour & marmoreal,
that man from away who came out here
to get away from himself?

What vapors rose from the punctured
balloon of his gut, which he used to tap
with the small end of a fist when explaining

the pull of mountain scenery,
the open spaces & abundant peace?
He would settle here

as lightly as a leaf, he swore, praying
for the developers to be enveloped
& the subdividers subjected to division.

They didn’t feel the wilderness
the way he did, living off the land,
conscious only of God’s grace

as he looked back: the poor earth raw
from harrow & bulldozer, a snaggletoothed jumble
of lighthouse, smokestack, steeple.

Nothing like the orderly ridges
rippling under his attacker’s pelt,
that figment of the blue distance suddenly at hand.

In the vernal pool

vernal pond
 

In the vernal pool on top of the mountain, the trees shiver even when there’s no wind.

 

Wood frogs have anchored their egg masses to a pair of sunken twigs.

 

Long shadows inched over the leaves & the moss while the blue-headed vireo recited his song from memory.

 

A mourning cloak butterfly passed me on the ridgetop trail, & I turned & watched it until it was out of sight.

 

A wild turkey burst from cover, got tangled in a black birch sapling, & fell back to earth.

 

Some disturbance of the universe would be unavoidable even if I never left the house.

 

Hours later I remember to check myself for ticks.

 
moss