2009 – Page 11 – The Morning Porch

August 8, 2009

Dave Bonta August 8, 2009

Gone is the persistent “tweet?” of the breeding season: at first light, the towhee’s call falls like a declarative, flat and final.

Dave Bonta August 7, 2009

Cool and clear, except for the small cloud hiding the sun. In the woods, the sound of a very localized shower—squirrel weather, no doubt.

Dave Bonta August 6, 2009

An autumnal morning. Two months late, the last dame’s-rocket bends out over the driveway, purple plus signs weighted down with dew.

Dave Bonta August 5, 2009

Everywhere a house wren burbles you can build a window; everywhere a tree cricket trills you can build a memorial to last night’s moon.

Dave Bonta August 4, 2009

Goldenrod in front of the porch now overtops the floor, like the crest of a green wave rolling in from the yard. I prop my feet on the rail.

Dave Bonta August 3, 2009

Goldfinches chitter in the treetops. Below the porch, the first powdered-wig blooms of white snakeroot. A young hawk’s falsetto cry.

Dave Bonta August 2, 2009

Sunday morning rain is different; it’s quieter. The distant rumble I take at first for traffic on the interstate turns out to be thunder.

Dave Bonta August 1, 2009

I watch a yellow black walnut leaf flutter to the ground. Autumn’s in the air. Fog persists most of the morning, lit up from above.

Dave Bonta July 31, 2009

A house wren ascends a stepladder in the steady rain. With a sudden crack, the cherry tree beside the porch sheds a dead branch.

Dave Bonta July 30, 2009 1

Glory be to God for punctuation: the fawn’s spots glowing in the gloom, drifting insect-motes, garlic in the yard, a ten-second rain.

Dave Bonta July 29, 2009

Two years later, the branch still dangles upside-down above the forest floor. A hummingbird pauses over a tansy and taps it with her bill.

Dave Bonta July 28, 2009

Scattered bird calls at dawn give the impression of a distant chorus, the way trees on a savanna blend into a false forest a half mile away.

Dave Bonta July 27, 2009

A chipmunk’s steady drip. How many years have I been sitting here? I remember each stage in the lichen’s conquest of the springhouse roof.

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.