11/16/2014

Dave Bonta November 16, 2014

A whispering in the dried grass: not wind but sleet. A hawk materializes like a magician’s handkerchief and flies off through the trees.

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11/16/2014

November 15, 2023
Cold and still at sunrise. The western ridge turns from barn-red to gold, like an autumn in reverse.
11/16/2014

November 15, 2022
Heavy frost in the yard. I scuttle about preparing for a scheduled seven-hour power outage that never comes. My tea grows cold.
11/16/2014

November 15, 2021
Clearing sky after a brief snow squall. The ridgeside, slick with leaves of slowly fading colors, shines like a salamander in the sun.
11/16/2014

November 15, 2020
A break in the gloom as a thin spot in the clouds crosses the sun. Two squirrels locked in combat fall 20 feet to the…
11/16/2014

November 15, 2019
Pulling my hat down against the sun, I glimpse a brown creeper on the dark side of a trunk. Every breeze strips more leaves from…
11/16/2014

November 15, 2018
Falling snow infiltrated by sleet—that clicking like a room full of typists. A jay has sole custody of the color blue—his two-note solo.
11/16/2014

November 15, 2017
The sun stretches one stripe of dazzle across the frosted yard. A chickadee hangs from a goldenrod seed head, fossicking through the fluff.
11/16/2014

November 15, 2016
In the midst of all this gray, the hulking green lilac—summer’s unfinished business. A crow crosses the sun, leaving a trail of complaints.
11/16/2014

November 15, 2015
In the Sunday morning silence, I can hear the wind reshuffling fallen leaves half-way up the ridge and the long sighs of the pines.
11/16/2014

November 15, 2014
Cold and still. Even with no snow, the light is already wintry: low-angled, flooding the open woods, illuminating the wings of small birds.

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The Morning Porch

Daily short takes from an Appalachian hollow

11/16/2014