The Morning Porch » towhee

Sunday May 19, 2013

Dave Bonta — Sun, 19 May 2013 16:01:40 +0000

Each bird I see has something in its beak: wren—a streamer of dried grass, chickadee—a seed, towhee—a bundle of stalks, grackle—a millipede.

Dave Bonta — Sat, 11 May 2013 10:47:42 +0000

I feel it before I see it: in the half-light, the intense green of new leaves. The sound of field sparrows, towhees, spring peepers, rain.

Dave Bonta — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 15:13:29 +0000

A towhee sits on a high branch at sunrise, his breast puffed out against the cold. His rufous feathers briefly match the color of the ridge.

Dave Bonta — Tue, 09 Oct 2012 13:46:16 +0000

Most of the maples have dropped their leaves since I was last on the porch, but the towhee’s breast still flickers rust-red in the lilac.

Dave Bonta — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 14:12:31 +0000

A towhee by the springhouse sings an inverted version of his usual song. The first purple bergamot is in bloom—a court jester’s absurd hat.

Dave Bonta — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 16:03:48 +0000

Bright and windy. A towhee flies in and out of a multiflora rose bush seemingly without a care, as if it weren’t studded with sharp hooks.

Dave Bonta — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 14:32:24 +0000

Overcast. The softly glowing reds and yellows, the hum of crickets, even the normally annoying call of a towhee all inspire nostalgia.

Dave Bonta — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 15:20:45 +0000

Whither the thrush whose ethereal notes woke me at dawn? A male towhee flies up to a sunlit branch and takes a shit, singing.

Dave Bonta — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 13:28:12 +0000

An accelerated tapping on the roof—who ordered rain? One bird says Konkerlee, another, Drink your tea. Takes me a second to sort them out.

Dave Bonta — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 14:02:42 +0000

The thin forsythia at the woods’ edge is in bloom at last. Two towhees battle over territory: rival renditions of the same six-note trill.