The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta July 26, 2009

The jesters’ caps on the topheading garlic have begun to split, revealing dense clusters of miniature selves. A raven’s mechanical laughter.

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March 19, 2024
Four hours before the equinox, the ground is white, with more snow swirling down. The miniature daffodils dangle from their stalks like deflated balloons.
March 19, 2023
A dozen dead leaves circle the yard as the clouds’ bellies turn orange. A phoebe calls once, sotto voce, from a branch above the creek.
March 19, 2022
Humid and cool. The sun keeps finding new holes in the clouds. The woodpeckers keep drumming.
March 19, 2021
A ray of sun strikes the lilac, setting its yellow buds aglow. The sound of water gurgling under my yard. The back-and-forth of nuthatches.
March 19, 2020
The rain eases off by midday but the cowbird at the top of a tall black locust tree continues to spill his single, liquid note.