Dave Bonta (morningporch)

Dave Bonta

Blue sky. The snow has retreated to the northwest-facing hillside under the shelter of the trees. A train's whistle made wavery by the wind.

Dave Bonta

Sleet rattles on the roof like a fast typist. Two deer in the springhouse meadow: when they stop moving, they vanish into the brown weeds.

Dave Bonta

Out before dawn, I hear nothing but the drip of melting snow, gaze at a photographic-negative version of the woods: light ground, black sky.

Dave Bonta

This morning it's the titmouse's turn to sing his spring song--an ode to tedium. I'm grateful when it's drowned out by a mob of crows.

Dave Bonta

The wistful two notes of the chickadee's spring song. The gray clouds begin to turn pink. A rabbit dashes into the lilac when I stand up.

Dave Bonta

The wind moves snow back and forth across the ground like a restless sculptor. Trees creak and groan: a regular machinery of discontent.

Dave Bonta

Snow in progress: curtains that fall and fall until they become the show itself. A nuthatch like a prompter--its anxious calls.

Dave Bonta

This snow makes it so much easier to keep track of squirrels, their mad chases on the ground, through the trees--showers of white dust.

Dave Bonta

A branch breaks at the top of an oak, clatters through the too-loose grips of lower limbs and lands in the new snow's too-shallow grave.

Dave Bonta

Flat white sky and a long, low rip of sound: some military jet. The first flakes drift back and forth, as if unsure of their destination.

Dave Bonta

The deep, soulful croak of a raven high above the ridge, side by side with its mate, heading east. Far behind them, a rabble of crows.

Dave Bonta

Another cloudless morning, marred only by the high whine of traffic. My neighbor calls with news of a bald eagle on the carcass of a deer.

Dave Bonta

A thousand blemishes sparkle on the side of the white porch column perpendicular to the sun. A red-bellied woodpecker trills and trills.

Dave Bonta

A wool-gray sky. This is not the blue morning we were promised! But tell it to the bluebirds warbling above the garage.

Dave Bonta

Is it overcast or sunny, warm or cold? I don't even notice. The line crew is back, and they've chainsawed the top off a dwarf pear tree.

Dave Bonta

Loggers clearing trees along the powerline: chainsaws scream, then drop to a low growl. The soft thump of a tree hitting the ground.

Dave Bonta

Walnut tree branches behind the house rock by turns, as if from the passage of some large animal, but it's only this warm-blooded wind.

Dave Bonta

Where the fresh snow has just melted on the concrete walkway, a bright green blush of lichen. The nuthatch's three nasal notes.

Dave Bonta

This could be March, were it not for the late, slow-rising sun. The powerline right-of-way is a band of yellow light through the dark woods.

Dave Bonta

The snow is reduced to patches now, and the stream runs loud. The book I'm reading says there's no such thing as a pure white horse.