The Morning Porch

January 28, 2015 by Dave Bonta

At sunrise, one shaft of sun reaches all the way through the woods to illuminate the end of the springhouse. The western ridge glows orange.

March 6, 2025
When the wind dies, I can hear the roaring of the creek. I sit in the dark, composing a limerick in my head.
March 6, 2024
Thick fog that lasts for hours. Sunrise must’ve been that big flock of red-winged blackbirds and grackles crackling and creaking like old doors.
March 6, 2023
Cold and still, with an almost-mackerel sky that Vs of tundra swans keep crossing—their clarinet notes, their breast feathers golden with sunrise.
March 6, 2022
Robin singing in the rain. It could be April but for the lingering patches of snow and the lack of a blush on the red…
March 6, 2021
Fourth-quarter moon just above the trees. The dawn chorus begins with a mourning dove. Then Carolina wren, crows, a red-winged blackbird.