The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta February 11, 2018

An ostinato of dripping on the porch roof. The fog advances, retreats. Somewhere a deer snorts. Drenched squirrels bound over the slush.

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December 18, 2023
Wind seasoned with drizzle in the pre-dawn darkness. Between gusts, the distant whine of tires. A tree limb cracks, but no crash.
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Steady rain and fog at one degree above freezing: bad luck for our Christmas Bird Count. Over the rain I hear crows, nuthatches, a chickadee.
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Clear and cold. Blazing through a forest’s worth of treetops, the rising sun looks feathery, a bit disheveled.