The Morning Porch

June 28, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The pasture rose in front of my wall bears two white blossoms: bindweed raising its flared trumpets to the white sky. The smell of rain.

June 27, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The red climbing rose is just coming into bloom, but it’s the garlic tops I’m admiring, those coiled green snakes with the heads of birds.

June 26, 2021June 26, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Bright sunshine after a night of thunderstorms. Four deer—two does and two fawns—run through the steaming woods.

June 25, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Beside the springhouse, the twittering zoom of a hummingbird’s courtship dive: from sunlight into cattail shadows and back. Tanager song.

June 24, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Another cloudless, cool morning. Two large craneflies joined back-to-back like Dr. Doolittle’s pushmi-pullyu float sedately past.

June 23, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The catbird sails in and out of the lilac without interrupting his stream of song. Oak leaves glossy as mirrors; the sky so blue it hurts.

June 22, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Soft applause from the road bank: a doe’s ears flapping as she shakes her head to chase away the flies.

June 21, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Up early enough to catch the end of the shortest night of the year, alive with wind and gurgling water, fireflies, a lone spring peeper.

June 20, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A hummingbird grooms itself in the middle of a downpour while a phoebe plucks insects from the side of the dead elm, hovering in place.

September 12, 2025June 19, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Another dark morning. The wood pewee makes a rare visit to the edge of the yard, sings one, sad note, and snaps a brown moth out of the air.

June 18, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The black-robed cowbird at the top of the dead elm burbles authoritatively, like the Grand Ayatollah of the yard taking credit for the rain.

June 17, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Breezy, overcast, a spit of rain—these reports never seem complete without the weather. The buzz of a hummingbird. A common yellowthroat.

June 16, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A robin refurbishing an old nest lands each time on the lowest branch and labors up the ladder of limbs with his beakful of dead grass.

June 15, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A golden light straight out of the Kabbalah, where two angels attend every grass blade—one singing like a vireo, the other, a quarry truck.