The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta November 5, 2018

The big dead elm has collapsed into the stream, its rain-slick bole broken in two places. A drenched phoebe hawks insects in the grass.

Previous Post: Previous Post

Next Post: Next Post

December 13, 2023
Just enough clear sky in the run-up to dawn to catch a few meteors, two of them nearly simultaneous. The absolute silence in which they…
December 13, 2021
In the half hour it takes the first red cloud to become a sunrise, every crow in the area has a suggestion. Even a distant…
December 13, 2020
After a red sunrise, the sky turns dark for St. Lucy’s Day. But who needs candles? My outrage at our broken politics is incandescent.
December 13, 2019
Two degrees below freezing, but the rain remains rain. Somewhere above the fog, an airplane’s single propeller.
December 13, 2018
I’m reading about the haiku poet who helped lead the Rape of Nanjing. Snow melt begins to drip from the top roof: muffled artillery fire.