The Morning Porch

December 26, 2008 by Dave Bonta

A screech owl’s trill, the maniacal cry of a pileated—everything sounds like a portent when the sky’s such a lurid red behind the trees.

December 25, 2008 by Dave Bonta

The trees rock quietly in the dawn wind, ringed by shards of yesterday’s armor. Reflections of golden clouds glide across the icy driveway.

December 24, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Freezing rain. A black birch sapling suddenly bows its head. As the temperature climbs, branches begin to shed their heavy decorations.

December 23, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Juncos foraging in the snow. One flies up to the branch nearest to my chair and inches sideways, its down coat puffed out against the cold.

December 22, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Fast-moving windows of blue in a yellow sky. The trees creak as they sway—it’s 5°F. A good day for walking, a bad day for standing still.

December 21, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Snow whitening the lilac. And here come the cardinals to pose photogenically in the midst of it: loud and obvious red; subtle tan and ochre.

December 20, 2008 by Dave Bonta

The ice is all gone, but the cedar next to my side door still leans away from the house at a 30-degree angle, like a giant green erection.

December 19, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Sleet to rain to sleet to rain: the tapping on the roof above my head keeps changing pitch. Faint notes of chickadees, titmice, a nuthatch.

December 18, 2008 by Dave Bonta

For the first time in weeks, there’s a slow gurgle from where the stream starts. Highway noise. The gray sky is gravid with bad weather.

December 17, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Freezing rain on new slush—a metallic sound. In the driveway, the herringbone patterns of ATV tracks from last night’s pair of trespassers.

December 16, 2008 by Dave Bonta

When I first come out, the yard is a giant gyre of birds. They soon segregate themselves: sparrows to the meadow, finches into the birches.

December 15, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Two deer dash down the slope and up into the woods, turn around and dash back. A repeat performance five minutes later ends in a thicket.

December 14, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Mid-morning, and the snow on the roof has sprouted tendrils of ice reaching for the ground. They drip; they sway in the breeze; they let go.

December 13, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Why do I get up? For two trains blowing at once, one high, one low. For the full moon sinking through icy branches. For mourning dove wings.