The Natural World

Quiet Evening


The evenings are so beautiful
Pale blue and rose, the sky,
Across the sky
Go fluttering bits of life
In swarms or singly
Amoeba like, they merge and flow
Separating, then joining,
In patternless patterns,
The evening star lends a grace,
To the quiet calm and beauty.


A Year Passes


A year ago, I watched them pass,
Fluttering flights of birds,
Over the place, where now I live,
My wonder was, where do they go?
But now I've found the trees,
Laden with avian fruit,
Chirping, squawking in constant motion,
Until they choose to fly,
To yet another destination.


The Beautiful


Each season has it's beauty
Spring brings blue bonnets
And white-belled yucca,
Summer blooms are myriad,
Both in color and in form,
But when comes the fall,
The narrow leafed gay feather,
Spreads it's lavendar loveliness
Across the empty fields,
That is a beauty,
Unsurpassed by any.


The Tree In Spring


The tree's new leaves and delicate branches,
Etch a lacy tracery against the greying evening sky,
They move with every breeze like joyous young dancers,
Swaying together and apart as if in some romantic dalliance,
Performers in an age old show,
Tonight it is still, but they await the slightest breeze
To send them dancing.

Nature's Portrait

I love long, rambling walks in the forest, because
Of the lonely, solemn hoot owl, keeping me company,
Of the cool dusk slipping down, like night-clothes over the trees,
Of the soft, damp coverlet of greenest moss,
Of  the merry rebukes of the squirrels as they seek hiding,
Of the shadow design the sunlight forms on the path,
Of the serene, unbroken stillness of the deep woods,
Of the half-heard distant rustling of a breeze whispering through
    the leaves,
Of the sudden trill of a bird from a near-by thicket,
Of the statuesque deer frightened by my appearance,
Of the brisk wind whipping the leaves from the branches,
Of the longed-for blessed solitude of a secret nook,
Of the murmuring and gurgling of an unrevealed stream,
Of  the cold, clear stream, running along, talking to itself,
Of the early morning flowers, star-studded with dew,
Of the solemn dignity of the shadowy trees in the moonlight.