Strip the hills, drain the boglands, and you create flood conditions inevitably. Yet that is what we have been doing for years.

The longer I live and the more I read, the more certain I become that the real poems about spring aren't written on paper. They are written in the back pasture and the near meadow, and they are issued in a new revised edition every April.

There it is, fog, atmospheric moisture still uncertain in destination, not quite weather and not altogether mood, yet partaking of both.

The owl, that bird of onomatopoetic name, is a repetitious question wrapped in feathery insulation especially for Winter delivery.

Green, the color of growth, or surgent life, enwraps the land. New green, still as individual as the plants themselves. Cool green, which will merge as the weeks pass, the Summer comes, into a canopy of shade of busy chlorophyll.

There are no limits to either time or distance, except as man himself may make them. I have but to touch the wind to know these things.

Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.