The Morning Porch

Dave Bonta July 11, 2021

Absorbed in a book of poetry from Uruguay, I forget to notice anything except for the high-pitched, nasal cries of a fledgling crow.

Previous Post: Previous Post

Next Post: Next Post

February 5, 2024
Sunrise. The resonant drum of a pileated woodpecker. A lone crow hops from perch to perch yelling Hey! Hey!
February 5, 2023
Full moon over the ridge an hour before sunrise turns fuzzy as thin, high clouds move in, fading out instead of setting. A dog barks…
February 5, 2022
Clouds going from pink to orange to yellow as the sky turns paler blue, all to the sound of running water and the whistling of…
February 5, 2021
One degree above freezing, and the last icicle has turned dull as the eye of a dead fish. As I watch, it trembles in the…
February 5, 2020
Sky gray as the skin of a corpse. An internal combustion engine’s profane orison. Some small bird hammering at the seed of a sunflower.