The Morning Porch

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.

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.