A redwing singing almost furiously from a marshy site, meadowlarks calling from the orange sunlit swamp grass around the edge of a small pond. A toad or two send up their trill – water bugs are out – a cold wind blows out of the North – I walk through the swamp pasture, and I sink deep in the turf, the water bubbling around my shoes. -Charles Burchfield, Journal Lunar phase and lore |
