The Morning Porch

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.

April 3, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

April 2, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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

April 1, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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

March 31, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

March 30, 2009 by Dave Bonta

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.

March 29, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Here in the clouds, one mourning dove has added an extra note to the beginning of his song, turning a dirge into a slow dance tune.

March 28, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Dark morning. The fox squirrel’s tail flickers orange from the back of the big red maple whose buds have swollen into dime-sized stoplights.

March 27, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The rain-soaked forest glistens in the sun, bejeweled. The air is full of traffic noise and gnats with shining wings.

March 26, 2009 by Dave Bonta

First rainy morning in weeks, but how quickly things turn to rust: rasp of a starling, a red-winged blackbird’s call, a scolding squirrel.

March 25, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A harsh cooing from the pine tree closest to the porch, like a hawk crossed with a dove. Two crows fly in, scold for a minute, and fly off.

March 24, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Another cold, clear morning, with just enough wind to keep my sunlit breath from blocking my view. A killdeer calls from high overhead.

March 23, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Cardinal song followed by gargling laughter: a starling sits at the top of a locust, its bill a gleaming needle in the deep blue sky.

March 22, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Over the clang of church bells, the ethereal cries of wild swans: a huge high V off to the north. Sorry, folks. G-d has left the building.