Friday March 22, 2019

The banks of moss above the road shine bright after last night’s rain. Two chickadees sing their spring songs as snowflakes fill the air.

On this date

Cloud cover riddled with blue holes, though the sun remains hidden. From beside the springhouse, a higher-pitched, thinner chickadee call. …

The snow has retreated to the tops of logs. A squirrel's scold-calls blend with the whine of traffic from over the ridge. A patter of rain. …

Half a degree above freezing, but it's enough to melt last night's snow everywhere the weak sunlight reaches. Quiet but for the trains. …

After last night's wind, the trees are finally almost bare. I close my eyes against the sun and a lurid sky with dark lacework rises up. …

A hawk glides north along the ridge, a dark eyebrow sliding over the gray sky. Behind and below my chair, something is gnawing at the house. …

The rain that drummed on the roof all night continues, but no longer turns everything it touches to ice like a cheap King Midas. …

The last of the snow is gone, and the moss that lay under it for a week looks greener than ever. A distant train horn blows a minor chord. …

Parallel bands—old contrails—score the northeast sky. In the front garden, I spot a mantis egg case sparkling high in the witch hazel. …

With the leaves down I can see not only farther, but deeper: through a maze of lilac branches, I spot a rabbit when its dark eye blinks. …

Creak and rattle from the woods. A distant gunshot. Overhead, the shapely cumulus could almost be a summer sky, if it didn't move so fast. …

With the temperature in the low 20s, the few clouds have that filmy, snow-filled look. Otherwise, a deep blue scribbled with white branches. …

It's cold—the porch floorboards pop when I come out—and still as a tomb. The distant calls of a female great-horned owl go unanswered. …

Clear and very cold. I hear squirrel teeth on walnut shell. The Carolina wren's happiness motor turns over once, twice, then putts to life. …

The Morning Porch