Seamus Heaney – The Morning Porch

August 30, 2013 by Dave Bonta

A jay’s call isn’t harsh, a nuthatch’s isn’t querulous: so hard to hear the music of what happens. Every day some poet dies from the strain.

November 29, 2024
Snow flurries at dawn, the ground more light than dark. A screech owl trills softly up on the ridge as the phone warms my pocket,…
November 29, 2023
Bitter cold—and the silence that comes with it. I can hear a squirrel’s claws on bark halfway up the ridge. A raven croaks twice.
November 29, 2022
Heavily overcast at sunrise; only the ground glows a faint pink, thick with rain-slick leaves. A screech owl trills.
November 29, 2021
A scurf of fresh snow. Crows getting told off by a raven. Bright patches in the sky—which holds the sun?
November 29, 2020
Clear and very still. The soft twittering of sparrows drinking from the stream, up where the sun has begun to melt off the heavy frost.