2009 – Page 13 – The Morning Porch

July 11, 2009

Dave Bonta July 11, 2009

Pursued by its parent onto a dead branch, a vireo fledgling: smaller and paler, like a ghost who must be fed. The wide-eyed fleabane below.

Dave Bonta July 10, 2009

A wood thrush sings at dawn; the trees glow faintly pink. What is it about the 3rd-quarter moon that makes it look especially edible?

Dave Bonta July 9, 2009

Thin fog in the corner of the field. A Cooper’s hawk fledgling responds to its parent, a hot cry, a knife cry, a glossy cry, a soul cry.

Dave Bonta July 8, 2009

Garlic tops still point at the ground like dysfunctional minarets. Goldfinches weave through the canopy, circling the thistle-spined sun.

Dave Bonta July 7, 2009

Another cool morning, but the haze portends heat. The wind carries a sweetness I can’t identify. Slow and careful footsteps up in the woods.

Dave Bonta July 6, 2009

A catbird dive-bombs a small buck with stubby velvet antlers. He runs toward a doe who chases him back, her fawn dancing along behind.

Dave Bonta July 5, 2009

On the steep slope below my parents’ house, a doe sweeps the deerflies from her twin fawns’ spotted backs with her long, rough tongue.

Dave Bonta July 4, 2009

Chipping sparrows feed a fledgling in the grass next to the wall, making much too much noise—even a deer would nosh on such a fine morsel.

Dave Bonta July 3, 2009

A low, leaden sky. Leaves blow backwards. A robin on a dead branch at the edge of the yard turns to face the woods.

Dave Bonta July 2, 2009

Sitting in great discomfort due to a sprained back, I regard a deer-stripped black raspberry cane, naked except for its thorns.

Dave Bonta July 1, 2009

Everything drips; I don’t notice that the rain has stopped until the sun comes out. A burst of song from phoebe, catbird and Carolina wren.

Dave Bonta June 30, 2009 1

Just inside the woods’ edge, three mushrooms weather the downpour, umbrellas for no one. The soaked bark of a maple turns patchy blue.

Dave Bonta June 29, 2009

Wood thrush, when you go back to Honduras, don’t just forage in the campo. Sing like you do here. Let them know how we mourn.

Dave Bonta June 28, 2009

The pasture rose in front of my wall bears two white blossoms: bindweed raising its flared trumpets to the white sky. The smell of rain.