The Morning Porch

April 17, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 16, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 15, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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?

April 14, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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

April 13, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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

April 12, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 11, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 10, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 9, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 8, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 7, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 6, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 5, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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

April 4, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.