The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta February 4, 2021

A crow mob on the move—their angry cries. Sun stripes the snow. I hold my head still to watch the slowly shifting points of glitter.

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Deep blue sky; blindingly white ground. A crow lands at the woods’ edge and clears its throat. A Cooper’s hawk flutters off like a fast…
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Both ridges vanish into fog. A squirrel missing the end of its tail disinters a black walnut from the frozen earth.
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The ground is white again, and the shape of the wind sketched out by flying flakes. A tree sparrow sings, homesick perhaps for the tundra.