iris – The Morning Porch

June 14, 2020

Dave Bonta 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.

Dave Bonta May 30, 2016

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

Dave Bonta June 1, 2013

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.

Dave Bonta May 13, 2012 1

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

Dave Bonta May 24, 2011 1

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

Dave Bonta May 12, 2010

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

Dave Bonta June 9, 2009

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.

Dave Bonta May 29, 2009

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

Dave Bonta May 22, 2009

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.

Dave Bonta May 27, 2008

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