The Morning Porch

July 14, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The lone survivor of the yellow jacket holocaust under the porch floor two nights ago slowly circles my legs. My foot freezes in mid-tap.

July 25, 2025
A warm breeze abuzz with hummingbirds and mosquitoes. A red-eyed vireo sings a few notes and falls silent. Inside a hollow locust tree, something is beating.
July 25, 2024
Cloudy and damp, with long intervals between bird calls. A small woodpecker’s improbably loud rattle from the black locusts sets off a pair of Carolina wrens.
July 25, 2023
Sunrise thunderstorm: the sky darkening just when you least expect it, then the downpour and all the leaves of grass nodding like headbangers as the thunder booms.
July 25, 2022
The sky never gets fully light before thunder starts to rumble. Now it’s getting dark again. The birds fall silent.
July 25, 2021
The sun feels as if it has no business being out on such a quiet morning. A towhee sings a truncated version of his song: just “Your tea!”