The Morning Porch

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.

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.