The Morning Porch

February 17, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Just past sunrise, the powerline is a tongue of light off through the woods. A heavy contrail drifts toward the sun like a deepening frown.

February 16, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The trees beyond the feeder are dotted with small birds watching every movement of the sharp-shinned hawk as it picks lice from its wings.

February 15, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A quarter-inch of snow makes the woods much whiter than it would’ve in December, before the leaf duff had been flattened by an icy iron.

February 14, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Quiet at mid-morning. The sun’s a faint smudge. I hear a caroling from inside the house: a friend calling to tell me it’s snowing there.

February 13, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Back to brown, except for the ribbon of snow left by the plow. The hungry cat creeping across the yard freezes at every rustle of the wind.

February 12, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Rain-dark trunks gyrate in the high winds. Branches rattle and clash. The trees are like sleepwalkers; I watch with my heart in my throat.

February 11, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Fog drifts through the woods where rain has reduced the snow to archipelagos. Overhead the clouds, too, are breaking up. Low-flying geese.

February 10, 2009 by Dave Bonta

I watch a porcupine waddling toward the porch in my camcorder’s small screen, how the spines move as its fat flesh jiggles. Rain on the way.

February 9, 2009 by Dave Bonta

A cloudless sunrise. Snow lingers on the west-facing hillside, hard and ugly as guilt. For the first time in months, a bluebird’s song.

February 8, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Warm and windy. I’ve been staring at the same dim star for five minutes now. The roaring on the ridge drowns out every other sound.

February 7, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Titmouse, screech owl, pileated: three ways to ululate. Orange-bellied clouds below the eaves which are festooned with dangleberries of ice.

February 6, 2009 by Dave Bonta

At dawn, watching one race across open ground from bush to bush, it hits me, why rabbits have been so scarce: the deer ate the briarpatches.

February 5, 2009 by Dave Bonta

1°F. A breeze feels as sharp as the studded rim of the sun rising through the trees. The call of a cardinal like an engine trying to start.

February 4, 2009 by Dave Bonta

At first light, some large animal crunching through the snowpack at the woods’ edge. It slows, stops. I wait for daybreak: nothing there.