Strix the harbinger
guards the exit gate, quizzing all
Who will pass this night?

Monday, January 7, 2013

Hope


Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;


And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

- Emily Dickenson

4 comments:

Tony T. said...

Winter getting to you? Take heart, spring is on the way!

Gunnar Berg said...

I am in Emporia, Kansas on my way to Alamo, Texas in the Lower Rio Grande Valley.

GRANDMA BIG (alias ELAINE TOFT) said...

The photo/poem, how poignant and lovely. The Iowa State Forest quip, the best. At least hog farm aromas aren't on the air, a HUGE plus. Happy Trails Roy and Dale.

Gunnar Berg said...

There is a very, very large number of birds at the feeders. Unfortunately a small number wack the windows and some don't make it. This was a house finch. The next day there was a junco. In the overall scheme of things it doesn't matter. In my small world, each one makes me a little sad.