The title's citation may well also apply to waterfowl returning in "Springtime" in the North Country. We believe we saw a Canada goose standing on a muskrat house along the Sunrise River just North of County Road 36 in Wyoming. We were in a hurry to get home to deal with some other matters so we didn't slow down enough to confirm our suspicions. Tomorrow may offer more time for that opportunity.
The river, pools and marshes are still ice covered. We saw no sign of open water anywhere. Then again, as we write this, the temperature outside is 56℉. Even our ice-coated drive is beginning to melt, and that's before we get into the low 60's tomorrow. We won't know for several weeks, if indeed by then, whether we have enjoyed an early Spring.
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| barred owl, visiting
Photo by J. Harrington
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Yesterday afternoon we had the pleasure of the company of a neighborhood barred owl perched in a tree a little North of the house. The backyard squirrel populations were nowhere to be seen while the owl was visiting. Since we can't distinguish the gender of barred owls, nor have we seen evidence of a nest, we're unsure if we have a visitor or a neighbor. In either case, having such company makes for a very pleasant afternoon (or morning).
Thirteen Ways of Looking: Poems About Birds
In honor of the poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"
by Wallace Stevens I. As Faith Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. –from "Hope is the thing with feathers" by Emily Dickinson II. As Freedom I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-- When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-- I know why the caged bird sings! –from "Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dunbar III. As Nature I will never give up longing. I will let my hair stay long. The rain proclaims these trees, the trees tell of the sun. Let birds, let birds. Let leaf be passion. Let jaw, let teeth, let tongue be between us. Let joy. –from "Let Birds" by Linda Gregg IV. As Exile The Himalayan legend says there are beautiful white birds that live completely in flight. They are born in the air, must learn to fly before falling and die also in their flying. Maybe you have been born into such a life with the bottom dropping out. –from "In Flight" by Jennifer K. Sweeney V. As Muse Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. –from "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats VI. As Music Tuwee, calls a bird near the house, Tuwee, cries another, downhill in the woods. No wind, early September, beeches and pines, Sumac aflame, tuwee, tuwee, a question and a faint But definite response, tuwee, tuwee, as if engaged In a conversation expected to continue all afternoon, Where is?—I’m here?—an upward inflection in Query and in response... –from "Birdcall" by Alicia Suskin Ostriker VII. As Ecstasy High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! –from "The Windhover" by Gerard Manley Hopkins VIII. As Wisdom Look! Look! he is climbing the last light Who knows neither Time nor error, and under Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings Into shadow. –from "Evening Hawk" by Robert Penn Warren IX. As Patience Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time. And sets it down just beyond the other, no splash, breath of a ripple, goes on slowly across the silt, mud, algae- throttled surface, through sedge grass, to stand to its knees in water turning grayer now that afternoon is evening. Now that afternoon is evening the gray heron turns blue, bluer than sky, bluer than the mercury blue-black still pond. –from "The Blue" by David Baker X. As Poet My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, where I dream in my little hood with many bells jangling when I'd turn my head. –from "My Mother Would Be a Falconress" by Robert Duncan XI. As Omen But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore." –from "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe XII. As Pest Last night I dreamed of chickens, there were chickens everywhere, they were standing on my stomach, they were nesting in my hair, they were pecking at my pillow, they were hopping on my head, they were ruffling up their feathers as they raced about my bed. –from "Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens" by Jack Prelutsky XIII. As Dinner CHICKEN. Alas a doubt in case of more go to say what it is cress.
What is it. Mean. Why. Potato. Loaves. –from Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
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