The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta August 16, 2008

The far side of the driveway is dusted in white—snakeroot coming into bloom. The poison that killed Lincoln’s mother, distilled in milk.

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January 4, 2024
Snow flurries at sunrise. My canvas sleeves become collections of daggers and asterisks—a short-lived museum of the moment.
January 4, 2023
The mountain is loud with running water; it sounds like March. Returning from hunting, the feral cat gives me a baleful glance as she slinks…
January 4, 2021
Yesterday evening’s new-snow magic has completely dissipated, replaced by the familiar bleakness and a drip drip drip on the porch roof.
January 4, 2020
Sky nearly as gray as the woods. A gray squirrel runs between the trees, and the rain-softened leaf duff makes hardly a sound.
January 4, 2019
At dawn, that bright smudge in the clouds must be Venus, just above the trees. From the far end of the field, a single hoot:…