|turkey hen with poults at wood's edge|
Photo by J. Harrington
Walking the dog this morning, the white sage that's competing with milkweed to take over the field near the road shone magically silver in the moonlight. I think it's the same kind of sage that can be turned into smudge sticks, but since I quit smoking years ago I haven't any tobacco to leave as an offering. I'll see if I can find an acceptable alternative before I start to do any harvesting. I don't know what the story may be with the milkweed, but there's no signs of monarch butterflies, eggs, or caterpillars. Do you suppose monarchs don't like white sage?
A Summer Shower
By Henry Timrod
Welcome, rain or tempestFrom yon airy powers,We have languished for themMany sultry hours,And earth is sick and wan, and pines with all her flowers.What have they been doingIn the burning June?Riding with the genii?Visiting the moon?Or sleeping on the ice amid an arctic noon?Bring they with them jewelsFrom the sunset lands?What are these they scatterWith such lavish hands?There are no brighter gems in Raolconda’s sands.Pattering on the gravel,Dropping from the eaves,Glancing in the grass, andTinkling on the leaves,They flash the liquid pearls as flung from fairy sieves.Meanwhile, unreluctant,Earth like Danae lies;Listen! is it fancyThat beneath us sighs,As that warm lap receives the largesse of the skies?Jove, it is, descendethIn those crystal rills;And this world-wide tremorIs a pulse that thrillsTo a god’s life infused through veins of velvet hills.Wait, thou jealous sunshine,Break not on their bliss;Earth will blush in rosesMany a day for this,And bend a brighter brow beneath thy burning kiss.
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