The Morning Porch

January 6, 2009

Dave Bonta January 6, 2009

Overcast and still, apart from the nasal calls of nuthatches. The few remaining spots of snow resemble nothing so much as blotches of mold.

Dave Bonta January 5, 2009

Long before daylight you can hear it coming, this first Monday after New Year’s, loud with the whine of truck tires on the interstate.

Dave Bonta January 4, 2009

So quiet, I could be in the middle of nowhere: nothing but the slow trickle of the stream and the gurgling of my belly. A few faint stars.

Dave Bonta January 3, 2009

Too dark yet to tell if the sky is overcast or clear. Wind soughing in the pines. The rapid footsteps of a leaf skittering up the driveway.

Dave Bonta January 2, 2009

Leaden sky. The loud whisper of a jet. Squirrels scuttle through the white fur on the leaf litter, searching for memories of buried nuts.

Dave Bonta January 1, 2009

The New Year so far is clear and quiet. Up past the old garden, a pileated woodpecker drums high then low, switching from branch to branch.

Dave Bonta December 31, 2008

A fresh half-inch of snow is enough to give shape to banshees towering into the treetops, which whip back and forth, shedding dead limbs.

Dave Bonta December 30, 2008

Clear and cold at sunrise, with gusts of wind and a roaring up on the ridge. Chickadees like yard-sale shoppers darting from find to find.

Dave Bonta December 29, 2008

I love winter. I can rise late and it still feels early: clear sky, sun through the trees, the hollow rattle of a crow too angry to caw.

Dave Bonta December 28, 2008

Rainbow at sunrise in the mist above the half-red ridge. I race up the driveway in my pyjamas, only to find the camera’s batteries are dead.

Dave Bonta December 27, 2008

In the darkness and fog, the sound of slush being punctured and scraped aside. I can just make out the solid shadows, their many thin legs.

Dave Bonta December 26, 2008

A screech owl’s trill, the maniacal cry of a pileated—everything sounds like a portent when the sky’s such a lurid red behind the trees.

Dave Bonta December 25, 2008

The trees rock quietly in the dawn wind, ringed by shards of yesterday’s armor. Reflections of golden clouds glide across the icy driveway.

Dave Bonta December 24, 2008

Freezing rain. A black birch sapling suddenly bows its head. As the temperature climbs, branches begin to shed their heavy decorations.