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clouds  cries  crows  degrees freezing  high  monday february   porch  sings  snow  song  steady  sun  sunday february   sunlight  turns 
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Preview: The Morning Porch

The Morning Porch

The view from my front porch every morning in 140 or fewer characters

Last Build Date: Wed, 21 Feb 2018 16:30:57 +0000


Wednesday February 21, 2018

Wed, 21 Feb 2018 16:30:57 +0000

Shirt-sleeve weather. A squirrel unearths a walnut from the yard in that casual way squirrels have of pretending it’s doing something else.

Tuesday February 20, 2018

Tue, 20 Feb 2018 15:04:19 +0000

Sun shining through fog. The garden-wall chipmunk must be in heat: two suitors battle for her attention in what’s left of the snow.

Monday February 19, 2018

Mon, 19 Feb 2018 16:16:09 +0000

The fog is a bad magician. Each time it lifts, it reveals the same trees and snow, the same skinny squirrels, the same two crows jeering.

Sunday February 18, 2018

Sun, 18 Feb 2018 16:15:47 +0000

In the shadows of the treetops, two chipmunks race over and under the three inches of fresh, wet snow. A chickadee sings his spring song.

Saturday February 17, 2018

Sat, 17 Feb 2018 16:21:26 +0000

The sun burns through high clouds. A gleam in the stream from a clump of sedge where spray has made an ice-fingered claw open to the sky.

Friday February 16, 2018

Fri, 16 Feb 2018 15:15:06 +0000

It’s been raining for 15 hours; the creek roars. The snowy ridges the plow made now resemble the mountains I know, orphaned, deeply eroded.

Thursday February 15, 2018

Thu, 15 Feb 2018 16:14:06 +0000

After a night of rain and unseasonable warmth, the snow cover is threadbare. Moss glows green on the road bank. Waxwings’ silvery whistles.

Wednesday February 14, 2018

Wed, 14 Feb 2018 15:59:06 +0000

Ash-gray sky and an inversion layer making it sound as if the highway runs straight through the hollow. Above the din, a titmouse keens.

Tuesday February 13, 2018

Tue, 13 Feb 2018 15:44:07 +0000

A soft, cloud-filtered sunlight makes the white hillside glow rather than gleam. The rime-lined creek is still loud from yesterday’s thaw.

Monday February 12, 2018

Mon, 12 Feb 2018 15:30:53 +0000

Two clouds cross, a high one going north and a low one going south—a sight so odd it feels like an omen, until the song sparrow sings.

Sunday February 11, 2018

Sun, 11 Feb 2018 16:08:45 +0000

An ostinato of dripping on the porch roof. The fog advances, retreats. Somewhere a deer snorts. Drenched squirrels bound over the slush.

Saturday February 10, 2018

Sat, 10 Feb 2018 17:02:53 +0000

Two degrees above freezing and I feel over-dressed. Icicles drop from the eaves. A Carolina wren sings his “tea kettle” song in a minor key.

Friday February 09, 2018

Fri, 09 Feb 2018 15:44:22 +0000

Steady, fine snow—the kind that means business. A rabbit dashes across the springhouse yard and disappears into the crown of a fallen tree.

Thursday February 08, 2018

Thu, 08 Feb 2018 15:09:47 +0000

Mesmerized by the snow, after a while I forget that that steady twittering isn’t the sound the flakes make as they fall. It’s just juncos.

Wednesday February 07, 2018

Wed, 07 Feb 2018 14:22:41 +0000

Steady sleet. A squirrel bores into the frozen earth to retrieve a black walnut, then schleps the battered, lumpy thing into the treetops.

Tuesday February 06, 2018

Tue, 06 Feb 2018 16:43:02 +0000

The roadside scraped bare by the plow draws all the juncos, foraging and chittering. A house finch lands on a spandrel and glares at me.

Monday February 05, 2018

Mon, 05 Feb 2018 16:32:47 +0000

The strong sun turns snow cascading from branches into gauze. In the deep blue sky, a distant jet, and the harsh, wild cries of a raven.

Sunday February 04, 2018

Sun, 04 Feb 2018 17:11:51 +0000

Fine snow settling over everything. From up in the woods, strange, high-pitched cries. Two crows fly off. The snow thickens.

Saturday February 03, 2018

Sat, 03 Feb 2018 15:49:13 +0000

Silence broken only by the wind for many minutes, until the fire alarm goes off in town: once, twice, three times rising from moan to wail.

Friday February 02, 2018

Fri, 02 Feb 2018 15:51:18 +0000

The monotonous chant of a tufted titmouse. Clouds move in and seed the wind with small, round snowflakes, giving it another way to bite.

Thursday February 01, 2018

Thu, 01 Feb 2018 15:38:37 +0000

A few degrees above freezing; the ground’s thin coat of snow already looks mangy. I spot a tiny fly walking purposefully across the porch.

Wednesday January 31, 2018

Wed, 31 Jan 2018 17:13:50 +0000

In the stillness, the rasp of squirrel teeth. Then the hollow thonk, thonk of a dropped walnut hitting the limbs of an oak on its way down.

Tuesday January 30, 2018

Tue, 30 Jan 2018 16:42:17 +0000

A fresh inch of snow. In the weak sunlight and bitter wind, three juncos huddle in a barberry bush above the stream, taking turns to drink.

Monday January 29, 2018

Mon, 29 Jan 2018 16:06:03 +0000

The same sort of day as yesterday, but so many more bird calls! A chipmunk emerges and goes on an inspection tour of the old stone wall.

Sunday January 28, 2018

Sun, 28 Jan 2018 16:20:01 +0000

The cloud ceiling—as meteorologists call it—grows thin, judging by the sun’s intensifying glow. Agitated song sparrows chirp back and forth.

Saturday January 27, 2018

Sat, 27 Jan 2018 16:32:11 +0000

Saturday sounds from down-ridge: crows, a chainsaw snarling and muttering, a pack of dogs—or is it wild geese, somewhere above the clouds?

Friday January 26, 2018

Fri, 26 Jan 2018 15:29:25 +0000

As the sunlight advances, the frosted yard turns from glitter to glisten. The barn-red cardinal’s inexplicably cheerful two-note tune.

Thursday January 25, 2018

Thu, 25 Jan 2018 15:44:53 +0000

The stream gurgles like a bird: two ways at once. On the far side of a snag, a knock I take for a woodpecker, though it could be anyone.

Wednesday January 24, 2018

Wed, 24 Jan 2018 16:43:20 +0000

Winter’s back. You can see it in the dash of snow and thick crust of clouds, hear it in the train’s horn and the querulous cries of crows.

Tuesday January 23, 2018

Tue, 23 Jan 2018 16:34:37 +0000

The woods after a rain, when branches have dried but trunks and limbs are still damp: kirei na kanji, as they say in Japan. A clean feeling.