The wood thrush, singing,
once more invites the day to
enter his pine woods.
There are but us three,
the moon, the earth, and myself
(the moon’s reflection).
This richest wine in
a convenient cask, and so
easily kept cool!
The Bidens Beckii
yellows the side of the river
below Hubbard Path.
I bathe at Hubbard's.
The water is rather cool,
comparatively.
August 12, 2018
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 © 2009-2021
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