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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Bright sun's illusion of warmth, dispelled each time the wind blows. The only white in the sky is a tall Amelanchier's cloud of blossoms. …

The tall tulip tree has burst its buds—shining green nubbins against the deep blue. Two crows chase a raven, diving, jeering themselves on. …

Cloudless and still. A pair of flickers inspect the old flicker den in the dead elm where a rat snake once swallowed all the hatchlings. …

The black birch catkins are even longer and yellower than yesterday, shining in the rain. The shadbush have traded blossoms for pale leaves. …

Overcast and damp. A tom turkey's lusty declarations echo off the hillside, punctuated by the crisp, interrogatory whistles of a cowbird. …

Birdsong amid the rain. My brother's ailing dog joins me on the porch, lying down with a sigh on the squirrel's wet footprints. …

The myrtle that has taken over half my yard is in bloom: a scatter of blue. At the woods' edge, two blue-headed vireos compare songs. …

The hammer-blows of a pileated woodpecker opening up an oak. Peonies are sprouting in the garden, an infant's pink, half-open fists. …

Church bells from town swell and fade as the wind eddies—some old hymn on the carillon. A black-and-white warbler's breathy two-note call. …

The sun glows faintly through the clouds like a coin at the bottom of a fountain. Three flickers bicker above the springhouse. …

Every day is the earth's birthday. The largest peony plant, though still uncurling, already sports ten small planets midwived by ants. …

Another cold morning. During a pause in the robin's song, I can hear the spring peepers' tireless ME ME ME ME ME down in the marsh. …

In the half-light, the faint crackling sound of a deer eating a rose bush. A lone Canada goose flies over, honking enough for a whole flock. …

The Morning Porch