Friday, December 15, 2006

Whisper Song

O master singer
of deep north woods,
a hermit wherever you live
I envy your voice,
the life-force by which
you survive
on this old farm
all winterlong.

When on sunny afternoons
you flit through sumac tangle
to eat the frost-softened fruits
letting loose in a whisper
your springtime song
the very thrill of it
warms me from
the inside out.


At 11:50 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I first heard the hermit thrush at Hasty Brook, our place in northern Minnesota. It took the better part of the summer before I saw one. With a song like magic, they'd sing until after dark. Those were perfect summer evenings. Sigh...

send them back in the spring.

At 8:38 AM, Blogger Julie Zickefoose said...

Lovely, lovely. We are blessed with these birdies. Your poem is perfect.

At 4:54 PM, Anonymous KatDoc said...

Whew - It's safe to sign onto BOTB again. The whole CSI Whipple entry was interesting, but the photos of half a rabbit were a bit icky. The hermit thrush picture is much better, thanks!

(Although, I can't really complain. I did take a whole series of photos of left-over female cardinal bits this week.)

I hope Cinnamon has recovered. The disapproval level must have risen to a new high after the last post.


At 5:14 PM, Blogger BT3 said...

Lynne: I concur. Hermits are ethereal to the nth degree.

KatDoc: Sorry for the ick-factor. I'll try to keep things less grisly in future. Which probably rules out the poems I've written about the gut piles left in the woods by deer hunters.


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