The Morning Porch

March 21, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Cold and clear. Looking west, I spot a bright white dot on the far side of the field: the breast of a red-tailed hawk shining in the sun.

March 20, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Swirling snow, swan music, song sparrow, the tapping of a woodpecker, a chipmunk’s tock tock tock—forget God. Is your moment big enough?

March 19, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Dark rain clouds without much rain in them. The pure notes of tundra swans drift down from the immaculate tundra of the upper air.

March 16, 2016March 18, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Bluebird, white-throated sparrow, a starling’s liquid note, and high overhead, a killdeer: the sky must be blue above the fog.

March 17, 2009 by Dave Bonta

In the dim light of a misty morning, rain-slick surfaces glow: green lichens, purple raspberry canes, the yellow blades of foxtail millet.

April 15, 2013March 16, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Flushed from hiding, the Cooper’s hawk easily eludes the crow, skimming the treetops like a wide-fletched arrow still attached to the bow.

March 15, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Joining the robins, titmice and song sparrow in the dawn chorus: a barred owl. The deer grazing in the yard look up, swiveling their ears.

March 14, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Thin clouds at mid-morning. Four nuthatches in the treetops are all raising the same argument, the sun a yellow limit point in their midst.

March 13, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Clear and cold at sunrise. The feral cat slinks across the springhouse meadow. Muffled sounds of a squirrel scolding from inside its drey.

March 12, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Back below freezing. The word breeze no longer fits the low winds, full of bite and lightly salted with snow.

March 11, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Wet with a clearing wind at daybreak, and the yard rings with robin calls. I hear a loud rummaging in the nest up under the eaves.

March 10, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Two crows locate a small gray hawk in a maze of gray branches. But their angry calls soon taper off, and they sit silently under a gray sky.

March 9, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A rapid whistling of wings: a woodcock hurtles through the yard at eye-level. Thank you, Congress, for giving back our slow, dark mornings.

March 8, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The distant drumming of a pileated woodpecker is the loudest thing. A faint rustle in the field, the yard, the woods as the rain moves in.