The Morning Porch

January 13, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Come crow and save us from a world without shadows, white as a motel towel, a rented room, the coats of orderlies in a home for the insane.

January 12, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The moon comes out, and there’s the rabbit, crouching next to the lilac. It races across the driveway and disappears into the cattails.

January 11, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Spots of blood in the snow at the woods’ edge. An odd, foot-long circumflex hangs in the top branches of the lilac like a snowy mustache.

January 10, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Falling snow so fine it lends little more than a shimmer to the air, like heat waves above a summer street except for the downward drift.

January 9, 2009 by Dave Bonta

At first light, a rare glimpse of a rabbit below the porch. I can hear the ice shattering as it chews on a clump of dead brome grass.

January 8, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A skim of snow on the ice: dangerous magic. Branches rattle in the wind, and there’s a new, nearly constant creak. The white sky brightens.

January 7, 2009 by Dave Bonta

From the other house, the sound of an unfed avian mob. Four goldfinches land in the ice-covered tree in front of me and cock their heads.

January 6, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Overcast and still, apart from the nasal calls of nuthatches. The few remaining spots of snow resemble nothing so much as blotches of mold.

January 5, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Long before daylight you can hear it coming, this first Monday after New Year’s, loud with the whine of truck tires on the interstate.

January 4, 2009 by Dave Bonta

So quiet, I could be in the middle of nowhere: nothing but the slow trickle of the stream and the gurgling of my belly. A few faint stars.

January 3, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Too dark yet to tell if the sky is overcast or clear. Wind soughing in the pines. The rapid footsteps of a leaf skittering up the driveway.

January 2, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Leaden sky. The loud whisper of a jet. Squirrels scuttle through the white fur on the leaf litter, searching for memories of buried nuts.

January 1, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The New Year so far is clear and quiet. Up past the old garden, a pileated woodpecker drums high then low, switching from branch to branch.

December 31, 2024December 31, 2008 by Dave Bonta

A fresh half-inch of snow is enough to give shape to banshees towering into the treetops, which whip back and forth, shedding dead limbs.