The front porch
is my sit spot—
the place I go each day
to observe the natural world.
it is my thin place—
where I connect most readily
with Life/Love/Being.
The thick arms
of a 70-year-old Hackberry
anchor one corner
and the prairie,
the other.
It looks to the north,
where I watch birds, alpacas, goats, chickens, guineas,
rabbits, birds, coyotes, grasshoppers,
honeybees, dragonflies, wasps, butterflies
live their lives.
And cats.
One recent morning,
I was charmed by a mamma and kitten
casually playing, napping, exploring
in the sunny flower beds;
kitten returning frequently from her explorations
to rub against Mamma
who usually gently encouraged the little one
to go about her investigations
and let Mamma nap in the sun.

Mamma and Kitten on morning outing


Checking in with Mamma

Drowsy Mamma

Inquisitive One

Last evening,
after the table was cleared,
with mugs of India Spice tea in hand,
two visiting friends and I
took to the rockers on the front porch.
A breeze from the east
pushed air, soft and cool,
across our faces.
Sisters of Earth all,
we rocked gently
and talked
and sipped—
grateful for the cool air,
the alpacas sitting down for the night,
fowl quieting in the barn,
wasps making for home in the porch eaves
as darkness fell around us.
We could say what we wanted:
the things we struggle with,
the passions that drive us,
the questions we hold,
and always, ultimately,
the commitment to our beautiful planet home,
that carries us
After all is said and done—
or not—
we come back
to the gratitude
for moments together
on our porches.
Suddenly last night, we realized
that familiar bright, white light
had filled the darkness
and we stepped off the porch,
looking to the southeast
knowing what we’d see,
and exclaiming
our unfettered excitement at seeing
the three-quarter moon,
one more time.

Before bedtime
the southern sky was flashing
and during the night,
the lightning was everywhere.
I didn’t expect rain
because lightning all around
the night before
had heralded
At some point last night,
I awoke to a strange, soft sound.
I got up and went to the front porch.
There was rain.
I sat in the rocker
in the cool,
smelling the rain,
soaking in the realness of it.
Something was moving
off the front of the porch.
It wasn’t a cat,
I knew,
since cats avoid getting wet.
It was a large armadillo,
shiny wet,
its pointy nose rooting through the grass
as if its life depended
on finding food.