The Morning Porch

November 19, 2016 by Dave Bonta

The loud rasp of squirrel teeth trying to gain entry to the chambers of a black walnut. Gibbous moon like an eggshell discarded in the sky.

August 7, 2025
Neither hot nor cold under a clouded-over sky that’s faintly blue, permitting sunshine but not shadows. The hummingbird circling my hung-out red bandanna appears to have developed a taste for my salt, tapping all over with her lightning-fast tongue.
August 7, 2024
Rain at dawn, tapering off by sunrise. Everything looks drenched. From behind the house, an indigo bunting’s cascade of notes.
August 7, 2023
Showers intermittent as stragglers in a race. This morning’s porch may stretch into the afternoon, as long as my claps keep up with the mosquitoes.
August 7, 2022
Light fog in the treetops. A hummingbird checks the hook where we hung a feeder two years ago, hovers in front of my face, goes back to the hook and looks at me.
August 7, 2021
Cool and humid. An Acadian flycatcher gathers breakfast from the leaves of a walnut sapling. Sleep still tugs at my eyelids.