Why is it this year that the familiar warbler songs sound like dripping blood or fabric being torn? When this afternoon for the first time mosquitoes appear in droves—a month earlier than usual—it feels appropriate that we bleed at least a little.
I live in an Appalachian hollow in the Juniata watershed of central Pennsylvania, and spend a great deal of time walking in the woods. My books of poetry include FAILED STATE: HAIBUN, ICE MOUNTAIN: AN ELEGY, BREAKDOWN: BANJO POEMS, and ODES TO TOOLS.
View all posts by Dave Bonta
