I see ducks or teal
flying silent swift and straight–
the wild creatures.
September 20, 1851
The dimpling circles
inscribed and erased amid
the reflected skies.
September 20, 1852
A great many small
red maples in Beck Stow's Swamp
are turned quite crimson,
September 20, 1857
Our first fall rain makes
a dividing line between
the summer and fall.
September 20, 1857
Blackbird all alone
singing very earnestly
on an apple tree.
September 20, 1859
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality."
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2019
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