The natural poetry of an Irvine student who notices birds on campus, and makes a top ten list.
… 4. Black Phoebe
A species I truly adore, these flycatchers are so dapper in little tuxedos: black back and tails with white bellies. They perch on a branch or sign, then fly off, catch an insect and fly back to their perch. This behavior is known, appropriately, as fly-catching. They like head-level branches in the park and call, “fee-bee.” …
May 11th, 2009 at 2:46PM
Glad to see UD doing her part to counter the extinction of experience. How else can we expect people to understand Frost?
The Need of Being Versed in Country Things
The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place’s name.
No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.
The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.
Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm;
And the fence post carried a strand of wire.
For them there was really nothing sad.
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,
One had to be versed in country things
Not to believe the phoebes wept.
May 11th, 2009 at 2:47PM
I wrote this post with you in mind, RJO.