The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta June 16, 2010

Just inside the woods, the soft clucks of a hen turkey trailed by a single chick. A thrush song sounds like a threnody—slow, sad notes.

Previous Post: Previous Post

Next Post: Next Post

December 6, 2023
Some breaks in the clouds around sunrise. The wail of a fire engine on the wind. Snowflakes drift down.
December 6, 2022
In the cold drizzle, a squirrel looks less gray than silver, shining dully as she crouches under the fur umbrella of her tail.
December 6, 2021
Warmish. The sun almost emerges through thinning clouds, heralded by chickadees foraging high in the black birches at the edge of the woods.
December 6, 2020
Cloud cover riddled with blue holes, though the sun remains hidden. From beside the springhouse, a higher-pitched, thinner chickadee call.
December 6, 2019
The snow has retreated to the tops of logs. A squirrel’s scold-calls blend with the whine of traffic from over the ridge. A patter of…