Tuesday, March 1, 2016

A Book of the Seasons March 1.



Last day for skating
pleasant and warm — winter still— 
the finest day yet.
March 1, 1855

The scream of the jay
perfectly repeated— the
echo from a wood. 

On the first spring day 
we first hear the pheobe note 
of the chickadee.

The spring sun shining
on the sloping icy shores
makes dazzling ice-blinks.

I have thoughts as I
walk on some subject that is 
running in my head.
March 1, 1860

March 1, 2019


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 © 2009-2016

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