Kim Denise
sunporch west window
Soon it will be warm enough to sit on the porch again. In the mornings it will be the newspaper and the day’s first quiet cup of coffee. Perky house sparrows will chirrup and pingpong themselves around the feeder. The neighbors will let out their fat little dog, who’ll pant and run crazily in circles until he returns to the door barking to be let in. Car engines will cough into life, as regular as clockwork—a reminder to put down the paper and rinse out the coffee mug; time to move from porch to cubicle.
In the evenings it will be shoes-off and a small glass of afterwork pinot. The laptop will burr awake long enough to scan the day’s email and maybe look up a new way to prepare a boneless chicken breast. The neighbor’s fat little dog will bark furiously at a squirrel until they open the door and lure it back inside with the promise of a treat. Each evening will stretch out a little longer and before long you’ll be surprised to realize it’s still daylight and if you’re going to watch the new episode of Bones you’ll have to hurry that chicken.
On weekends the porch will be a paperback novel and NPR. Long telephone conversations with distant family. A chat and a glass of wine with a friend after shopping. In another week or two it will be warm enough to move the plants back to the window sills. The neighbors will grill burgers and brats; their fat little dog will follow every move of the spatula with hypnotic intensity. And already the sparrows are nesting.
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