The Morning Porch

October 25, 2012October 25, 2012 by Dave Bonta

The soft clatter of oak leaves on their way to the ground. Dull thumps as a pileated woodpecker excavates a hole, crest like a flaming axe.

2 thoughts on “”

Pingback: Sibilant Ghazal | Via Negativa
JulesPaige

October 26, 2012 at 12:22 pm

A bright spot of color among the grey and brown days.

Comments are closed.

January 16, 2025
Overcast, cold and still. A pair of amorous squirrels climb slowly up and down the trees at the woods’ edge. I take it on faith…
January 16, 2024
Snow falling at dawn—fine flakes at first, then larger and faster as the darkness subsides, as if they’re emissaries for the day. A chickadee sings…
January 16, 2023
Coyotes yipping up on the ridge before dawn. I try to guess the weather based a jet’s contrail—not too long—in the faint light of a…
January 16, 2022
My first morning back since the New Year: clear, still, and bitter cold. The stream’s gurgle. The enthusiasm of small birds for the sunrise.
January 16, 2021
Rising late, I catch the last of some new-snow magic dripping from the eaves. Friends arrive bearing sauerkraut.