In the still air, a small disk of ash falls spinning like a demonic snowflake. The sun smolders on the ridgetop between columns of oaks.
The view from my front porch every morning, in 140 or fewer characters
Tag Archives: oaks
An impossible butterfly dances past...
An impossible butterfly dances past the porch: a shred of oak leaf. The trees creak and groan in the bitter-cold wind.
Cold, and an iron wind. Two murders...
Cold, and an iron wind. Two murders of crows rage at each other from the crowns of adjacent oaks, the sunrise slippery on their napes.
Also tagged crows
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Bright and cold. A blue jay practices...
Bright and cold. A blue jay practices its red-tailed hawk scream at the top of a scarlet oak, half the leaves still there and gleaming.
Also tagged blue jays
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The doe’s gray coat blends into...
The doe’s gray coat blends into the November woods, her two grown fawns still brown. They nuzzle through the leaf duff, feasting on acorns.
The wind rustles in the crown of one...
The wind rustles in the crown of one red oak; all the others are still. A train whistle. The light patches in the clouds fade to blue.
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The Morning Porch is three years old today! Here’s the first post. (It was originally written in the past tense, but on the second day I realized that I’d save a few characters if I used present tense. Voilà: “poetry”!)
Also tagged train
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The yard is alive with robins foraging...
The yard is alive with robins foraging, chasing, tut-tutting, rust-orange breasts the color of the oaks, all aglow in the mid-morning sun.
Also tagged robin
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Clear and windy. Twelve crows fly sideways...
Clear and windy. Twelve crows fly sideways in tight formation over the treetops, the still-green oak leaves gilded by the sun.
Also tagged crows
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A steady clatter of acorns from a squirrel...
A steady clatter of acorns from a squirrel foraging in the crown of an oak. Could it be dropping them on purpose for later retrieval?
Also tagged acorns, gray squirrel
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Windy at sunrise, and the thermometer...
Windy at sunrise, and the thermometer’s arrow just past 32. I scan the low spots for frost, thinking about the oaks’ Rapunzel blooms.
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