The Morning Porch

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.

December 12, 2008 by Dave Bonta

The world’s white again: even with the wind, a thin coating of snow sticks to every icy surface. Juncos flit through clattering branches.

December 11, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Rain. The snow’s almost gone, but the forest floor has been altered: no longer scruffy and mammalian, but sleek as a red-backed salamander.

December 10, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Rain and fog. Only the low rumbly sounds break through: a jet, a train. Sitting in the dark, it’s almost possible to believe in isolation.

December 9, 2008 by Dave Bonta

How the acoustics vary from one morning to the next! Yesterday, the hollow was a soundproofed room; today it’s as echoey as a concert hall.

December 8, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Cloudy and cold, but the chickadees, titmice, juncos and finches are carrying on as if they were seeing these trees for the very first time.

December 7, 2008 by Dave Bonta

I come out during a snow squall and am quickly camouflaged in white. Twenty minutes later, the sky is blue and I’m squinting into the sun.

December 6, 2008 by Dave Bonta

It’s cold—the porch floorboards pop when I come out—and still as a tomb. The distant calls of a female great-horned owl go unanswered.

December 5, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Juncos gather on the gravel driveway, replenishing their gizzards with grit. Up and down the big maple, it’s squirrel kabuki, love and war.