The Morning Porch

March 8, 2008 by Dave Bonta

A chipmunk emerges from the base of the stone wall and races over the soft snow. All this rain has brought out the blush in the red maples.

March 7, 2025
Windy, cold and clear at dawn. A song sparrow pipes up from the depths of the lilac. The ridge turns red.
March 7, 2024
An hour past sunrise, bright spots begin appearing in the clouds. A lull in the birdsong. I notice the old lilac’s haze of green buds.
March 7, 2023
It’s snowing, fine flakes turning fat and slow—but so many of them, it’s mesmerizing to watch. After a while I look down: I too have…
March 7, 2022
Cloudy and warm. A Coopers’s hawk darts through the treetops. From the barnyard, a phoebe’s enthusiastic chant. Raindrops.
March 7, 2021
Clear and cold. The scattered, jubilant cries of six swans—too few to form a chevron—passing high overhead, bellies pink with sunrise.