A Book of the Seasons: September 9.

September 9.

The clock strikes four. A few dogs bark. A few more wagons start for market, their faint rattling heard in the distance. I hear my owl without a name; the murmur of the slow-approaching freight-train, as far off, perchance, as Waltham; and one early bird. The round, red moon disappearing in the west

The clock strikes four. 

A few dogs bark. I 

hear my owl without 

a name the murmur of the slow-

approaching freight-train.
September 9, 1851

Liatris blooming
rich fiery rose-purple
like the sun rising.
September 9, 1852

The old earth-turtle
takes care of turtles’ eggs while
mother waddles off.
September 9, 1854

 A botanist in 

pursuit of grasses tramples

down oaks in his walk. 

September 9, 1858

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 © 2009-2015