The Morning Porch

July 27, 2009

Dave Bonta July 27, 2009

A chipmunk’s steady drip. How many years have I been sitting here? I remember each stage in the lichen’s conquest of the springhouse roof.

Dave Bonta July 26, 2009

The jesters’ caps on the topheading garlic have begun to split, revealing dense clusters of miniature selves. A raven’s mechanical laughter.

Dave Bonta July 25, 2009

The misty sunrise puts me in a Hallmark mood: Roses are brown,/ violets, long dead./ This coffee is bitter/ and goes straight to my head.

Dave Bonta July 24, 2009

Soapwort, self-heal, mullein, Rudbeckia, butterfly weed: my garden exemplifies the messiness of any organization dominated by volunteers.

Dave Bonta July 23, 2009

Come hummingbird and bring some glitter to this damp gray morning, buzz around the bergamot, pizzazz at the beebalm’s one bedraggled bloom.

Dave Bonta July 22, 2009

Gray and misty. A common yellowthroat keeps caroling back to a Carolina wren, until I have trouble remembering which “witchedy” is which.

Dave Bonta July 21, 2009

The tansy heads beside the porch have grown eyes: clear beads at the center of each dense sun. A faint haze of rain thickens into pelt.

Dave Bonta July 20, 2009

A bluebird warbles in the darkness. Eyelids heavy with hours of missing sleep, I squint into the spreading stain of light.

Dave Bonta July 19, 2009

A morning cold as autumn. At intervals, at the woods’ edge, a red-tailed hawk, orange light, the song of a wood thrush. Here and gone.

Dave Bonta July 18, 2009

Half-burp, half-grunt, this utterance of a mother deer to her playful fawns. Twin leaves flutter to the ground like wings of a green bird.

Dave Bonta July 17, 2009

Gray sky, gray titmouse descending the gray ladder of dead elm branches, pausing to swipe its bill against each as if sharpening a blade.

Dave Bonta July 16, 2009

The rabbit at the edge of the driveway seems unconcerned about my presence until a house wren starts up an alarmist propaganda campaign.

Dave Bonta July 15, 2009

Bluer than blue sky, a perfect morning, and all I hear is a robin tut-tutting and a Carolina wren going Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.

Dave Bonta July 14, 2009

The lone survivor of the yellow jacket holocaust under the porch floor two nights ago slowly circles my legs. My foot freezes in mid-tap.