The scattered honks of a lone Canada goose to the east set off a coyote on the sunlit ridge to the west. I take a deep breath of cold air.
The Morning Porch will be going on hiatus for a few days. I should be back to the porch on Monday or Tuesday.
Sunrise, and the sky is clear. From behind the red ridge, two train whistles blow at the same time in different keys. A car door slams.
A pair of Carolina wrens call back and forth across the yard, the female responding to each exuberant outpouring with the same terse note.
Dawn. A migrant wood thrush flits from branch to branch along the edge of the woods. In the yard, a grown fawn nuzzles its mother’s neck.
Colored leaves turn backwards in the cold wind—still the same pale green. A pileated woodpecker’s distant chant.
The dead cherry has shed two more limbs, yellow stubs shining dully like the eyes of a corpse. I find a conjoined apple in the fridge.