ablutions – The Morning Porch

January 8, 2013 by Dave Bonta

I hold out my glasses and peer at a drop of water left over from the shower: fisheye lens in which the sun falls from bent, inverted trees.

June 14, 2025
Rain at dawn tapering off into another patter alongside the red-eyed vireo’s. Wood thrushes sing back and forth. From deep in the lilac, a house finch lets loose.
June 14, 2024
Overcast at sunrise. The jumping spider who lives under my chair comes topside for a brief scuttle about. A red-bellied woodpecker bangs on his morning drum.
June 14, 2023
The rains continue. The last peony blossom collapsed in the night, and the last purple iris has opened. Where mowed grass had died, there’s a blush of green.
June 14, 2022
Rain thickens into downpour, but a very small moth continues to fly back and forth. The evening primroses remain half closed.
June 14, 2020
If the sun isn’t going to shine, we still have the irises, the evening primroses, and a goldfinch fresh from his bath: a trifecta of yellow.