logging – The Morning Porch

November 23, 2017 by Dave Bonta

The holiday stillness is broken by the snarl of a chainsaw just over the ridge, the crack and crash. A glimpse of treetops thrashing wildly.

October 13, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Rising late, I listen to loggers’ chainsaws from over the ridge to the west. The trees are almost at their peak of color. A distant crash.

June 9, 2025
Occasional glimpses of sun. The first periodical cicadas began singing at sunrise, and by midmorning it’s a kind of high, ceaseless static—as if they’re relaying transmissions from the cosmos.
June 9, 2025
Occasional glimpses of sun. The first periodical cicadas began singing at sunrise, and by midmorning it’s a kind of high, ceaseless static—as if they’re relaying transmissions from the cosmos.
June 9, 2024
Breezy and cool. The briefest of showers comes tapping on the roof. A tall dame’s rocket sways in front of the porch, all its flowers converted into needle-thin pods.
June 9, 2023
A slight sheen on the leaves at sunrise—what passes for rain these days must’ve fallen. The faintest smell of soil. An ovenbird’s endless lesson.
June 9, 2022
Just past sunrise, a clearing wind. I look up from the Eastern Europe of my book to flame-bellied clouds, the forest all astir.