Monday, January 7, 2013


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


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.


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.