The Morning Porch

April 12, 2009

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.

Dave Bonta April 4, 2009

Every time the wind dies, I hear the steady ticking of a chipmunk. A rift opens in the clouds just wide enough for half the sun.

Dave Bonta April 3, 2009

A warm east wind. Curtains of rain on the almost-open buds of red maple, pussy willow, daffodils, and lilac leaves like green bishop’s hats.

Dave Bonta April 2, 2009

In the half-light, a mallard duck flies quacking past the porch. A turkey gobbles. Welcome to April weirdness! Winter’s such serious stuff.

Dave Bonta April 1, 2009

Buds swell on the ornamental cherry beside the porch, unaware that porcupines have girdled the trunk. April Fool! You’re dead.

Dave Bonta March 31, 2009

Sunny and cold. My mother starts up the trail into the woods with her pant-legs tucked into her socks against the plague of deer ticks.

Dave Bonta March 30, 2009

A new squeal from the locust trees. The wind is an eraser that works badly, and tears a hole in the woods if pressed too hard.