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| Nick Wroblewski, "The Grace of Wild Things" |
A June Day
I heard a red-winged black-bird singing
Down where the river sleeps in the reeds;
That was morning, and at noontime
A humming-bird flashed on the jewel-weeds;
Clouds blew up, and in the evening
A yellow sunset struck through the rain,
Then blue night, and the day was ended
That never will come again.
Sara Teasdale
I have to get this one in before June ends. One of the most beautiful sounds in the world surely has to be the sound of Red-Winged Blackbirds singing out their ownership of the reeds. I rarely hear this sound anymore, so the sadness of passing beauty feels very strong to me in this poem.
I have to get this one in before June ends. One of the most beautiful sounds in the world surely has to be the sound of Red-Winged Blackbirds singing out their ownership of the reeds. I rarely hear this sound anymore, so the sadness of passing beauty feels very strong to me in this poem.
A mystery, perhaps solved, there are black birds at the dyke where I walk my dog. The wings are such crimson red, I had never seen these birds before and was so curious who they were. I think it st is there song that brings such music to my walk. I will think of this poem when I see them again.
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