Up the hill beyond
the brook I sit on a rock
below the old trough..
Those early times when
golden-brown alder tassels
tremble over brooks.
April 21, 1854
As I sit on the Cliffs, the sound of the frost and frozen drops melting and falling on the leaves in the woods below sounds like a gentle but steady rain all the country over, while the sun shines clear above all.
It snows hard all day.
If it did not melt so fast,
would be a foot deep.
What pretty things go
to make up the sum of life
in any valley.
At the main trail walk
home elated in the rain,
endorphins kicked in.
20170421
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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