The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta December 29, 2008

I love winter. I can rise late and it still feels early: clear sky, sun through the trees, the hollow rattle of a crow too angry to caw.

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May 9, 2024
Cool and increasingly cloudy as the sun clears the treetops—a bright spot in the gray. A rose-breasted grosbeak sings. Chipmunk metronomes go in and out…
May 9, 2023
“Light rain” turns out to mean a shimmer of mizzle. The forest belongs once again to the preacher bird—red-eyed vireo—and the ovenbird chanting teacher teacher…
May 9, 2022
Sunrise. A squirrel carries a freshly dug-up walnut in its mouth. The tulip tree’s leaves are already big enough to wave like a rave of…
May 9, 2021
The rain arrives just about at church time, hard, steady, drowning out all other sound. Only the big mullein leaves still look dry.
May 9, 2020
Still below freezing by late morning. Snowflakes wander back and forth among the new leaves. Holes in the clouds open and close.