|
Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist
|
|
|
Of silent wing and quiet, modest mien, Content to dwell and rear your speckled brood Unnoticed, sometimes heard but rarely seen; I've often wished that I might win your friendship, And in the quiet of some fern-banked glen Absorb the peaceful silence of a kinship So rich with birds; alas, so rare with men. When shadows stretch their length across Tyuonyi Frijoles Canyon greets the eve of rest, The night wind comes like someone eager, lonely, A silver-lined cloud glows in the west. Then from the shadowy, whispering boxelders, Beneath whose skirts the Rito tries to hide, Your minors swell, their liquid, golden splendors Full as the moon, resistless as the tide. As daylight weakens, other birds are silent. The dusk is hushed to better hear your song When, clear and flutelike, sweet with tender sadness You bid the day adieu for night has come. Forgotten in the daylight's rush and worry, When evening brings me rest, and thoughts are deep, Refreshed, I 'wait your song, your hour of glory, To fill my soul with peace that welcomes sleep.
In English Class, Hurrah oh! And those that do get zero too In Boulder, Colorado. What is the junk that makes us flunk? This English is, Hurrah oh! No other class lets no one pass, In Boulder, Colorado. Hail, hail, Quad English class of Prep School! Hail, hail, Quad English class of Prep School! Where all the girls are wailing, And all the boys are failing, To this Quad English class of Prep School Hail! Hail! Hail! Classes were known as Onies, Toots, Trips, and Quads at the State Preparatory School which later became Boulder High School.
Daintily winged and sturdily shod, She lightly rests on the dimpled bay, To this wave a dip, to that one a nod. Sounds the bark and swish of her hot exhaust, A crackle, a sputter, a throbbing drone. She moves, she turns to the challenging wind And plunges ahead through the froth and foam. The wavelets drag at her splashing floats. She struggles and writhes as she pulls away. A sudden lift and she zooms aloft With a spatter of drops to the baffled bay. Bright sunlight fingers the ripples' crests, A wheeling gull scans the foam in vain, A soothing hum on the sea breeze borne, Now pulsing strong, now a murmuring wane. A shadow flashes across the waves. A speeding form, so graceful and light, Swoops circling, straightens, and splashes down Like a wild duck slithering home at night.
As a mountain crag in its clinging cloud. Her battlemasts traced on the eastern skies, Now dim, now hid in their misty shroud. While the tiny waves of the harbor dawn Feel their timid way 'long her hulking sides, And the fog-drenched canvas, closely drawn Where the seaplane lashed to her aft deck hides. Her small boats huddle beneath her stem. Her riding lights pale at the threat of day. And the four-paired stroke of her ship's bell sound Muffled, and hollow, and far away.
Nor any tail to switch at flies, But he can roll, and then I get Salt water in my mouth and eyes.
Behind the sleeping city. Black and bold Spires and towers stand in cold relief. The sun lifts up a herald rim of gold. Out of the south a gentle breeze comes winging, Waking each leaflet with its fragrant breath, Brushing the velvet waters of the bay Until they dance in sparkling wakefulness. Above the stirring city smoke plumes rise, The breeze retreats, its morning duty done, While anchored ships like misty islands lie Across the gleaming pathway of the sun.
Out on the sandy beach. All day I wear my bathing suit, and run, And cover up with sand. It's fun To make a mountain out of sand, To pat and smooth it with my hand, To scoop a roadway for my horse. (He always pulls his cart, of course.) I dig a great big pool wherein My red and yellow fish can swim. Then, sometimes, I extemporize Some recipes for beachsand pies. Some seaweed bits all chopped up fine, Add heaping sandspoon filled with brine, Some sifted sand to make it thick, All stirred together with a stick. Then, in my dishes, 'til they're done I bake them in the scorching sun. But in the winter when the rains Help mother wash the window panes, Since I can't go down to the shore, I have my sand box on the floor.
So long, and lank, and lumpy at the joints. It wasn't for utility we kept him. His not the breed that trails, or guards, or points. It wasn't for his bravery that we kept him, Nor just to have a dog to be in style. We loved our pup because he was so human, Because he always wagged his tail and smiled. He loved to run along the trail before us Investigating every tree for wayside smell. He liked to linger on the trail behind us Entranced by some, to us unnoted, spell. He liked to blunder right across the garden, Or tease the cat, or stir up any fuss. We scolded, still we never ceased to love him, An interested, faithful pal to us. His friends he numbered by the hundred million Because he thought of everyone as friend. He bothered none. Why fear he molestation? A speeding auto brought the sudden end. Spectators said the driver tried to dodge him. He took the blow, nor e'en considered why. One thought, one final mighty effort He reached our car and crawled beneath to die. So now no shadow follows all our movements. No padding footsteps stop outside our door. No solemn voice informs us of the moonrise. We save the bones and table scraps no more. No lifted paw and wistful eyes entreat us. No white-tipped tail sweeps circles on the floor. No happy, bounding form runs out to meet us. Our lives are empty and our hearts are sore.
Where it's always spring or fall. Cool and soft the verdant summers, And the winters — none at all. Where the rose blooms in November, Lakes are cool in mid-July, And the rain is just a moisture Misting from a hazy sky. So I heard the Northwest call, "Come ye one, oh, come ye all." And the trains were jammed with tourists Roads with autos large and small. So again 'twas "Westward Ho!" Now I'm here, and so's the snow, And the temperature is dropping Toward the sixteen mark, below. In the land where gentle breezes Whisper over hill and dale, (Plate glass windows in Seattle Smashed in sixty-eight mile gale.) And it's known to thunder only Once in ten years, natives say. (So the sixth of last September Was a century in a day.) Where the grass is always green, Ice and frost are rarely seen. (Thawing out my pipes this morning Took a pint of gasoline.) All you skeptics so aloof, U.S. figures are the proof. (Half a ton of snow last evening Quite collapsed my woodshed roof.) Far flung empire where the farmer Never prays for wet in vain. (Was it eighty days last summer Never fell a drop of rain?) For the city man on Christmas Mows his lawn for exercise. (Streetcar snowplows in Seattle Run from sunset 'till sunrise.) What is that protest I hear? "Most extraordinary year! Everyone who stays a winter Can't be torn away from here." But I like it anyway, So, I'll settle here and stay 'Till Rainier starts belching fire, And the Cascades shake and sway.
My daily cares eclipse fond memory's glow; But when the flickering flames leap in my fireplace, I dream of happy days of long ago. I fancy it is springtime back at Aggies. The campus walks are bright with carefree throng. The silver spruces glisten by the driveway. Each elm's a bird cathedral filled with song. Chorus: When it's springtime back at Aggies, I am coming back to you, Colorado Alma Mater, Sunny skies forever blue. Once again I'll tread your pathways, Live once more a bygone day When it's springtime back at Aggies, Near the Rockies, far away.
Steady gleam the stars of early June, Sounds drift to me — sounds long since familiar, Can it be I'm leaving all so soon? Faces somehow suddenly grown dearer, Friendships, little heeded, now so true, Can it be tomorrow is Commencement, And forever, C.A.C., I'm leaving you? All your ugly spots are memory hidden, Shaded walks and velvet lawns I see. All I hear, the rally calls and laughter, In my heart your true democracy. Goal long strived-for now has lost its glamor, Its achievement means I leave your knee. Tomorrow you'll become my Alma Mater, Time, roll back a year, a month, for me! In my throat a lump that won't be swallowed, In my eyes a mist that will not clear. Colorado, Fate wills I must leave you, Aggies, Green and Gold, farewell to thee.
Why does your tiny body lie In some dark corner dust-entombed? By what sad fate were you thus doomed? Poor little mouse, please tell me why You had to creep away and die. Oh little mouse, how did you die? Did Death's dark dagger drawing nigh Warn you to hide from light of day? Or did some peril come your way And stamp your life out? So I sigh And ask, "How, mousie, did you die? Oh silent mouse, when did you die? A week at least has labored by Your fast-decaying carcass throws An odor worse than any nose Should stand. My thoughts you stupify. Oh, worthless mouse, when did you die? Oh subtle mouse, where did you die? I've hunted low, I've hunted high. In every corner, every drawer I've looked and felt, and all the floor I've swept, and still I peek and pry. Oh, hateful mouse, WHERE did you die?
Are seen on every hand, And failure to produce a crop Means famine in the land. But when the crop does extra well And raise more than they use They send some shiploads over here Our menus to confuse. So, by the way I feel right now, All China had a year Of unexcelled productiveness Their crop is mostly HERE. It's rice in the waterbag, It's rice in our hair, It's rice in the coffee pot, It's rice everywhere. It's rice in the camera, It's rice in the bedding, It's rice, rice, rice, rice After Happy's wedding.
When all the weeds are out of sight, And naught is seen of chewing bug Of aphid, beetle, worm, or slug. The flowers all are in their beds. Lettuce and cabbage nod their heads. Potatoes, even, close their eyes. The sleeping squash vine prostrate lies. The smut of corn, the wilt of bean, The mark of drouth; none can be seen, And all look green, and fresh, and bright Beneath the moon's concealing light. The brown spots in the lawn don't show Or where the mower failed to mow. No dandelions rise to fight. I like the lawn, too, best at night.
For many things remain still not begun, While others that I've started are not done. And several friendly loans remain a debt. So come not yet, Oh Death! But turn to riper fields where you may reap Without reproach, your harvest — endless sleep, And let me, for a time, forget your breath. Then, when my work at last is done, and all My many debts are paid, my children grown Each living with a family of his own, And I am growing old, then will I call And with a smile of welcome 'wait your knock Upon Life's weatherbeaten door through which I'll gladly follow you, and leave my niche Beside the chilling fire, without shock To those whose destinies absorb them. Let Me end my work, Although my fading day Has added naught to warrant it, I pray Oh Death, not yet! Not yet!
There are lines for use in fishing. There are straight lines, rail lines, life lines, 'phone lines nigh. But the line of universal Ever apropos dispersal, Is the line from which we'll amputate the lie. Now the "sweet and clinging vine" Weaves a soft, elusive line Interspersed with many a sad, heart-squeezing sigh. And it takes a darned good man To so keep his mind in hand As to search for, find, and then eject the lie. This winsom modern flapper, This astounding, fearless lapper Strings a lingo not so easy to defy. It's a line that's hard to call And, the fact is, many fall Having failed to find and bare the hidden lie. Tho' most lines are feminine, There's the truly mascu-line, The sigh-for, vie-for, buy-for, die-for guy. Tho' I have some hesitation Voicing such an accusation, I'll bet YOU at some time tried to perpetrate this lie. Of all the lines the most entrancing Are the ones reeled out in dancing — Mystic music, hands tight clasped, and eye-to-eye — It's the finest situation To incite imagination, And the liner oft' believes his own sweet lie. So the line to which I'll tie Is the line without the lie, For the bovine-feline line does not get by. I'll resign the lieing line (Pass the pen and let me sign) Henceforth mine's the line designed without the lie.
If the friends of my youth chance to meet me, Will they look at me, stop, with a "hello old top!" Now I wonder, just how will they greet me? For four years bring many a change in this world, And a man may be altered completely. When I meet them, by chance, will they pass with a glance, Or — I wonder just how will they greet me? I wrote to them all when I first came away, And then other things seemed to need me. I began to forget, something now I regret, So I wonder, just how will they greet me? I worked for their praise, the work kept me away, Has it lifted itself to defeat me? Will they think I forget them, no longer respect them? Oh, I wonder, just how will they greet me? For where, after all, lie the values of life? Not in how all the "outside" folks treat me. All that's worthwhiile depends on the love of old friends, So, I wonder, just how will they greet me?
The fresh, 'the new we crave to know The things that last so soon seem strange. The only way to balk decay is grow. Tho' "history repeats itself," Each cycle's clad in different guise, And he who's looked on History's shelf And knows the signs of Change and Time is wise. Each generation has its day With actions based on man-made tools. Our fathers lived a different way With little kept through life except the rules. How may we hope to prophesy What role the future will adopt? How silly to sit back and sigh Because the thing we hope to bring has stopped. Why cram our children's heads with reams With knowledge which has served our youth? Let's teach them to fit in the schemes Of Change, and Strife, that we call Life, and Truth. |
| <<< PREVIOUS |
|
NEXT >>> |
Rhymes of a National Park Naturalist dodge/sec5.htm — 19-May-2007 | ||