11/8/2024

Dave Bonta November 8, 2024 0

Clear and cold. The red squirrel makes its usual racket while the gray squirrels leap silently through the treetops. The western ridge turns red.

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11/8/2024

November 8, 2023
The sun clears the ridge and I’m blinded—the oaks are mostly bare now. Those that aren’t, glow red like a scattering of old barns.
11/8/2024

November 8, 2022
5:20. Bleary-eyed smudge of an eclipsed moon above the western ridge. 6:20. Pink clouds turn orange. The first song sparrow.
11/8/2024

November 8, 2021
Yet another bright blue October day a month late. The scarlet oak Dad and I planted 25 years ago is in its glory, redder than…
11/8/2024

November 8, 2019
First light. A small bird who’d been spending the night in the old hornets’ nest chirps and flutters off. A light dusting of snow.
11/8/2024

November 8, 2018
All the most supine stiltgrass has grown white fur in the night. Two nuthatches foraging at the woods’ edge react badly to my sneeze.
11/8/2024

November 8, 2017
Yesterday’s snow lingers in the shadows and drips and slides from the leaves, filling the treetops with rustling. Vultures spiral overhead.
11/8/2024

November 8, 2016
A female cardinal gleans seeds from a false buckwheat vine, dangling upside-down, fluttering in mid-air—as acrobatic as any chickadee.
11/8/2024

November 8, 2015
Cold and clear. The mostly bare branches shine silver in the sun. A junco flies twittering through the porch.
11/8/2024

November 8, 2014
A skim of snow on the springhouse roof glows faintly blue under the blue sky. The sun turns the old, limp lilac leaves into stained…
11/8/2024

November 8, 2013
Snowflakes swirl past and vanish into the weeds. Only the springhouse roof is cold enough for them, but soon it too turns back to gray.

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The Morning Porch

Daily short takes from an Appalachian hollow

11/8/2024

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