The Morning Porch

The view & soundscape from my front porch first thing in the morning, in 140 characters or less (mirrored at Twitter and Identi.ca).
I live near the top of Brush Mountain, in Plummer's Hollow, Pennsylvania, and blog at Via Negativa.
—Dave Bonta

August 20
In the wild black cherry limb that hangs over the entrance to the trail up the ridge, red clumps of stems, a squirrel getting its breakfast.
August 19
I’m beginning to distinguish individual locomotives by their whistles. The majority merely say “look out,” but a few almost manage “I am.”
August 17
Sun in the treetops. A doe and her fawn are consuming the future of the forest, one oak or tulip poplar seedling at a time. The doe burps.
August 16
The far side of the driveway is dusted in white—snakeroot coming into bloom. The poison that killed Lincoln’s mother, distilled in milk.
August 15
A still morning. Dew drips from the top roof onto the porch roof. Each birdcall—woodpecker, towhee, jay—is surrounded by acres of silence.