The Morning Porch

January 10, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Falling snow so fine it lends little more than a shimmer to the air, like heat waves above a summer street except for the downward drift.

June 8, 2025
Faint sun through an ash-white sky. I picture a history of human civilization from the point-of-view of periodical cicadas, emerging from the ground every 17 years to scream.
June 8, 2024
Cool and crystal-clear. The first sun to reach the meadow tries out a cage of chicken wire made for a volunteer tulip tree seedling, turning it into a shining tower above the weeds.
June 8, 2023
Peony leaves shriveling from drought even as their antique, cream-white heads still bloom. Ashen skies. A Cooper’s hawk skims the treetops without setting off a single squirrel.
June 8, 2022
Clear and cool. A bright yellow goldfinch circles the yard still in shadow, chattering like a bearer of sunlit news.
June 8, 2021
A late-morning pause in the rain. The sun comes out, and I notice that the first evening primroses have opened—that flat, obvious yellow.