Wednesday September 06, 2017

Dave Bonta September 6, 2017

I cede the porch to the hornets and sit under the portico. The view: a garden full of weeds, a least flycatcher landing briefly on an aster.

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Fog glowing sunrise-orange. Sound is out of the east: traffic, freight trains, the crusher at the quarry. A chickadee sings both his songs. …

The porch floor shining in the sun, a dragonfly comes in to inspect it, flying right under my propped-up legs. The dry whisper of its wings. …

Again it takes a finger of sun to draw my attention to something in plain sight: the foxtail millet heads—tails?—bent low by their seeds. …

First cicada of the day, easing in and trailing off as if mimicking the Doppler effect. A cuckoo's faint call—never as far as it sounds. …

Overcast and cool. I pull a few clumps of stiltgrass and my hand starts to itch—chiggers? The high, strangled calls of a raven. …

Sunday morning rain is different; it's quieter. The distant rumble I take at first for traffic on the interstate turns out to be thunder. …

At the end of one refrain, a mourning dove pauses and adds an extra syllable, as if correcting itself. The cheery yellow of St. John's wort. …

The Morning Porch