Thursday, April 7, 2016

A Book of the Seasons: April 7.


If you make the least correct 
observation of nature this year,
 you will have occasion to repeat it
 with illustrations the next, and 
the season and life itself is prolonged.

The hazel stigmas
are well out and catkins loose
but no pollen shed.



On the Cliff I find
after long and careful search
one sedge flowering.
April 7, 1854

The first boat on the
meadows is exciting as
the first spring flower.
April 7, 1856

At a fork the dog
looks back and deliberates
which course I will take.
April 7, 1857

Withered leaves rustling
about in a small whirlwind
frightening some hens.
April 7, 1860

Rustling withered leaves
whirling in a small whirlwind
frightening some hens.
April 7, 1860

April 7, 2020



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 © 2009-2017

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