The Morning Porch

April 18, 2009

Dave Bonta April 18, 2009

First morning without long johns: my legs feel like orphans in their tunnels of denim. The air is full of gnats and the gobbling of turkeys.

Dave Bonta April 17, 2009

Rattle and rasp from a hole in the eaves where the starlings are moving in. A pair of ravens low over the ridge. The sun’s blazing nest.

Dave Bonta April 16, 2009

An orange tabby appears at the side of the porch, and we stare at each other with alarm. Sun spreads through the treetops like an epidemic.

Dave Bonta April 15, 2009

Another cold and rainy morning. A white spot up in the woods is nothing but foam on a black birch trunk. How long until the shadbush bloom?

Dave Bonta April 14, 2009

Beside the rosette of mullein leaves like thumbless felt mittens beaded with rainwater, the feral cat pauses to yowl.

Dave Bonta April 13, 2009

White sky, weak sun, a hollow knocking from the quarry. A winter wren holds forth below the old corrall, rambling, introspective.

Dave Bonta April 12, 2009

A ray of sun penetrating the lilac illuminates the two daffodils at the base of its hind legs, and the dog statue stands on yellow stars.

Dave Bonta April 11, 2009

In the cold rain, a pair of phoebes sit on a branch of the lilac overhanging my sidewalk, flicking their tails and gazing at the portico.

Dave Bonta April 10, 2009

Twenty minutes after the feral cat disappeared under the porch, the squirrel still scolds. Rain is a soft patter of lead shot—or so I wish.

Dave Bonta April 9, 2009

Myrtle, speedwell, daffodils, bittercress—who cares if it’s 26 degrees? At the edge of the woods, a solitary vireo’s slow and dreamy song.

Dave Bonta April 8, 2009

I watch the trees rocking in the thin sunlight as if from a train window, detached. An oak leaf that held on all winter finally falls.

Dave Bonta April 7, 2009

The miniature daffodils are in bloom around the old dog statue, a new scurf of snow on its back where the white paint long ago flaked free.

Dave Bonta April 6, 2009

First light. A rabbit in the yard vanishes when it stops moving. Over the rain, I can just make out the soft, fey notes of a hermit thrush.

Dave Bonta April 5, 2009

Twelve cowbirds in the sunlit crown of a walnut tree take turns with their single, liquid syllable, the blue sky gurgling in every ditch.