The Morning Porch

Dawn. Three deer become two, become...

Dave Bonta — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 16:59:51 +0000

Dawn. Three deer become two, become three again. The sound of squirrel teeth on black walnut shell—that harsh madman’s whisper.

Dave Bonta — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 13:25:57 +0000

Sunrise. The bluebird warbles once, as if unsure whether it really will be that kind of day. The cardinal keeps singing his one good note.

Dave Bonta — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 14:29:05 +0000

Querulous cries of a raccoon, like lost notes from a soprano clarinet. Two pileateds hammer for their breakfast—an arrhythmic percussion.

Dave Bonta — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 12:54:51 +0000

First light. The silence is broken by a rustle in the leaves, followed a little later by the hollow sound of a creek stone being flipped.

Dave Bonta — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 15:36:46 +0000

The sun glints off periwinkle leaves in the yard where snow has just melted. All sounds come from a great distance: crow, woodpecker, train.

Dave Bonta — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 14:28:46 +0000

Blue sky. The snow has retreated to the northwest-facing hillside under the shelter of the trees. A train’s whistle made wavery by the wind.

Dave Bonta — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 14:38:10 +0000

Sleet rattles on the roof like a fast typist. Two deer in the springhouse meadow: when they stop moving, they vanish into the brown weeds.

Dave Bonta — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 11:47:45 +0000

Out before dawn, I hear nothing but the drip of melting snow, gaze at a photographic-negative version of the woods: light ground, black sky.

Dave Bonta — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 16:56:40 +0000

This morning it’s the titmouse’s turn to sing his spring song—an ode to tedium. I’m grateful when it’s drowned out by a mob of crows.

Dave Bonta — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 14:57:39 +0000

The wistful two notes of the chickadee’s spring song. The gray clouds begin to turn pink. A rabbit dashes into the lilac when I stand up.