Let me not forget at least, after the three day rain, beaks raised face, the two starlings at and near the top twig
of the white-oak, dwarfing the barn, completing the minute green of the sculptured foliage, their bullet heads bent back, their horny
lips chattering to the morning sun! Praise! While the wraithlike warblers, all but unseen in looping flight dart from
pine to spruce, spruce to pine southward. Southward! where new mating warms the wit and cold does not strike, for respite.
-wcw
