iris – The Morning Porch

June 14, 2020 by Dave Bonta

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.

May 30, 2016 by Dave Bonta

At the woods’ edge, three yellow hats: iris gone feral. A hummingbird rockets back and forth through the lilac, showing off for a female.

June 1, 2013 by Dave Bonta

The chickadee flies in with food and flies out with a fecal sac. In the meadow, yellow iris like a tour group in a crowd of dame’s-rocket.

May 13, 2012 by Dave Bonta

The first purple irises are opening along the rock wall, their three petals descending like the landing gear on spaceships.

May 24, 2011 by Dave Bonta

The first irises have opened in the night, some with red and yellow tongues, some with violet, sampling the morning air.

May 12, 2010 by Dave Bonta

Two grackles appear at the woods’ edge, iridescent black against the brightest green of the year. In the garden, the first yellow iris.

June 9, 2009 by Dave Bonta

In the tall grass beside the road, two yellow iris—last survivors of that phalanx planted 30 years ago, when we still dreamt of order.

May 29, 2009 by Dave Bonta

After decades of segregation by color, the irises in my garden seem to have interbred: beside the porch, yellow petals with purple wings.

April 15, 2013May 22, 2009 by Dave Bonta

The Cooper’s hawk chases a redtail out of the woods—guided missile, staccato cry—and lands in a tall yard tree. The first yellow iris.

May 27, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Warm, humid, and overcast. In the side garden, the first twelve yellow irises opened in the night. Small flies walk all over my legs.