2/12/2018

Dave Bonta February 12, 2018 1

Two clouds cross, a high one going north and a low one going south—a sight so odd it feels like an omen, until the song sparrow sings.

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In your morning poetry class someone reads an abecedarian ending with the word “zombies” – Via Negativa
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2/12/2018

April 28, 2023
Gray skies at sunrise beginning to tap with fingers of rain on this leaf and that—their first real shower. The avian chorus gains a soft…
2/12/2018

April 28, 2022
Five degrees below freezing. The lilac leaves are already big enough to show their backs to the wind. Four white narcissuses bob and sway.
2/12/2018

April 28, 2021
Hazy sun. The first catbird pops out of a barberry bush, improvising wildly. An ant traverses my collar.
2/12/2018

April 28, 2020
Mid-morning, and the sun looks almost as if it might come out. A turkey gobbles right below the other house, puffing out his chest feathers.
2/12/2018

April 28, 2019
The catbird is back, improvising lines of its spring-long solo in a cold drizzle. The edge of the woods is an impressionist’s soft blur.
2/12/2018

April 28, 2018
Sun warms the porch; a rising buzz of flies. Each spicebush around the farm is yellowing up on its own schedule, bud to fuzz to…
2/12/2018

April 28, 2017
‪The bud-burst woods is a backlit canvas of pointillist green. A pileated woodpecker hops down a log, her scarlet crest flashing as she taps.‬
2/12/2018

April 28, 2016
Cold drizzle. A brown thrasher improvises at the woods’ edge, and I spot the first tent caterpillar web—a tiny white flag in a wild cherry.
2/12/2018

April 28, 2015
Sky bluer than a bruise. A small salticid spider suns itself on my sweater. The first carpenter bee makes a slow inspection of the porch.
2/12/2018

April 28, 2014
On the myrtle flowers, nothing but native bees. The sun fades. A black-throated green warbler calls, switching between its two buzzy songs.

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The Morning Porch

Daily short takes from an Appalachian hollow

2/12/2018

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