Ground fog up in the field glows faintly orange in the sunrise. Under the old dog statue, a cartoon yelp of yellow: the first daffodil.
Dave Bonta
At dawn, scattered drops—a passing shower. Spring peepers in the corner of the field call in spurts, like an engine running out of fuel.
A newly-returned phoebe sings from each familiar perch. Up at the other house, the sound of breaking glass. The sky turns white.
A warm morning. Over by the well, garter snakes thread themselves into a throbbing knot. Some animal starts bumping under the house.
The Cooper’s hawk’s kak-kak-kak, followed finally by a glimpse: rapid scissoring wings and a small bullet of a body veering into the pines.
How have I failed to notice until now a seven-foot-tall burdock right beyond the end of the porch, still studded with sticky ornaments?
The mourning dove still calls at 9:30. A field sparrow’s accelerating notes: Hurry up! Hurry up! Daylight savoring time—when is that?
It’s not my imagination; the bluebird saves his best song for the bluest skies. But this morning, even a passing plane sounds inspired.
Yesterday’s insects have been replaced again by wandering snowflakes. A vulture flaps to gain altitude, its head red and garish as a wound.
Warmth without shadows, the gossip of goldfinches like a single bright thread. The rabbit doesn’t chance a dash across the yard.
Large gnats drift back and forth in front of the porch and a fly wanders the rim of my laptop. Two Cooper’s hawks chatter up in the woods.
Home after a week away, what’s changed? The song sparrows are back, ebullient as ever, and the dead cherry has shed another shaggy limb.
The Morning Porch is on hiatus until March 6. Feel free to leave your own front-porch observations in the comments.
A downy woodpecker gleans breakfast from the dead cherry, chirping between taps. A mackerel sky. The smell of thawed earth.