snow – The Morning Porch/Patio

Monday January 18, 2021

Dave Bonta January 18, 2021 0

A few minutes till sunrise; the wren sounds impatient. But the clouds are heavy—overflowing, in fact. It’s light enough now to see the flakes.

Dave Bonta January 16, 2021 0

Rising late, I catch the last of some new-snow magic dripping from the eaves. Friends arrive bearing sauerkraut.

Dave Bonta January 9, 2021 0

Clear and still. The tree’s long shadows stripe the white hillside like a zebra. Below the porch, a cat’s footprints.

Dave Bonta January 4, 2021 0

Yesterday evening’s new-snow magic has completely dissipated, replaced by the familiar bleakness and a drip drip drip on the porch roof.

Dave Bonta January 2, 2021 0

A pause in the rain. My snow-plowed mound has turned to slush, which makes an interesting feature for a writer’s front yard: a literal slush pile.

Dave Bonta December 24, 2020 0

White sky and white ground meet in a blur of fog. Above the drumming of rain on the roof, a white-throated sparrow’s minor-key song.

Dave Bonta December 22, 2020 0

After a night of light rain, the snowpack has shrunk, revealing a microtopography of logs, pits and mounds—bones under the skin of an elder.

Dave Bonta December 20, 2020

It’s snowing. A squirrel carrying a walnut leaps from limb to limb, trailed by a cascade of powder, and disappears into a hollow oak.

Dave Bonta December 18, 2020

Overcast and cold. Juncos hop down the snowy streambanks for a drink. A female cardinal flies past—the extra red in her open wings.

Dave Bonta December 17, 2020 1

Cold and still at sunrise. With more than a foot of new-fallen snow, the woods’ edge is an asemic text already being edited by squirrels.