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Dave Bonta
hot summer night
itching even where
nothing itches
wind from the west the sound of metal striking metal
I found a knife in the woods. Or more accurately, I found an old, tooled leather sheath for a knife with the remains of a hilt sticking out of it.
ancient seabed
a sudden roar
from the quarry
higher pitched
than my memory
first cicada
which tree
will be today’s gnomon
great grey slug
I just found these coral fungi less than 50 feet from my front porch. Why don’t I ever go back here? I muttered as I crouched down to take a shot.
Then I stood up and saw all the poison ivy. That’d be the reason.
old corral
two years for horses
47 for trees
too red
half the maple’s leaves
are poison ivy
unchanged
for 180 million autumns
cinnamon ferns
fraying scrolls
illuminated with blue fungi
black birch log
the descent beckons
in three directions
old charcoal haul roads
crossroads deep in moss
a ladder of fungi climbs
a nearby snag
namaste means
I bow to the divine in you
lightning-struck oak
it’s not true
that lightning never strikes twice
spears of heartwood
Fungi are like us—
absorbing oxygen, releasing CO2.
This puffball is an abandoned factory.
I nudge the intact wall
with the point of my umbrella.
It’s all out of smoke.
Ovenbirds and the black morel,
writes a friend.
Impossible to see.