There's no taking trout with dry breeches.
quote by Miguel de Cervantes
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Part 6 of Trout Fishing in America
THE HUNCHBACK TROUT
The creek was made narrow by little green trees that grew
too close together. The creek was like 12, 845 telephone
booths in a row with high Victorian ceilings and all the doors
taken off and all the backs of the booths knocked out.
Sometimes when I went fishing in there, I felt just like a
telephone repairman, even though I did not look like one. I
was only a kid covered with fishing tackle, but in some
strange way by going in there and catching a few trout, I
kept the telephones in service. I was an asset to society.
It was pleasant work, but at times it made me uneasy.
It could grow dark in there instantly when there were some
clouds in the sky and they worked their way onto the sun.
Then you almost needed candles to fish by, and foxfire in
your reflexes.
Once I was in there when it started raining. It was dark
and hot and steamy. I was of course on overtime. I had that
going in my favor. I caught seven trout in fifteen minutes.
The trout in those telephone booths were good fellows.
There were a lot of young cutthroat trout six to nine inches
long, perfect pan size for local calls. Sometimes there
were a few fellows, eleven inches or so--for the long dis-
tance calls.
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poem by Richard Brautigan
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Poor Paddy
[the pogues version]
-----------------------------------------
In eighteen hundred and forty-one
The corduroy breeches I put on
Me corduroy breeches I put on
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-two
From hartlepool I moved to crewe
Found myself a job to do
A working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-three
I broke the shovel across me knee
I went to work for the company
On the leeds to selby railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-four
I landed on the liverpool shore
My belly was empty me hands were raw
With working on the railway, the railway
Im sick to my guts of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-five
When daniel oconnell he was alive
When daniel oconnell he was alive
And working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-six
I changed my trade to carrying bricks
I changed my trade to carrying bricks
To work upon the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-seven
Poor paddy was thinking of going to heaven
The old bugger was thinking of going to heaven
To work upon the railway, the railway
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song performed by Pogues
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Part 10 of Trout Fishing in America
WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING
IN AMERICA PEACE
In San Francisco around Easter time last year, they had a
trout fishing in America peace parade. They had thousands
of red stickers printed and they pasted them on their small
foreign cars, and on means of national communication like
telephone poles.
The stickers had WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING IN AM-
ERICA PEACE printed on them.
Then this group of college- and high-school-trained Com-
munists, along with some Communist clergymen and their
Marxist-taught children, marched to San Francisco from
Sunnyvale, a Communist nerve center about forty miles away.
It took them four days to walk to San Francisco. They
stopped overnight at various towns along the way, and slept
on the lawns of fellow travelers.
They carried with them Communist trout fishing in Ameri-
ca peace propaganda posters:
"DON'T DROP AN H-BOMB ON THE OLD FISHING HOLE I"
"ISAAC WALTON WOULD'VE HATED THE BOMB!"
"ROYAL COACHMAN, SI! ICBM, NO!"
They carried with them many other trout fishing in Amer-
ica peace inducements, all following the Communist world
conquest line: the Gandhian nonviolence Trojan horse.
When these young, hard-core brainwashed members of
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poem by Richard Brautigan
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Part 2 of Trout Fishing in America
ANOTHER METHOD
OF MAKING WALNUT CATSUP
And this is a very small cookbook for Trout Fishing in America
as if Trout Fishing in America were a rich gourmet and
Trout Fishing in America had Maria Callas for a girlfriend
and they ate together on a marble table with beautiful candles.
Compote of Apples
Take a dozen of golden pippins, pare them
nicely and take the core out with a small
penknife; put them into some water, and
let them be well scalded; then take a little
of the water with some sugar, and a few
apples which may be sliced into it, and
let the whole boil till it comes to a syrup;
then pour it over your pippins, and garnish
them with dried cherries and lemon-peel
cut fine. You must take care that your
pippins are not split.
And Maria Callas sang to Trout Fishing in America as
[...] Read more
poem by Richard Brautigan
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Part 8 of Trout Fishing in America
A RETURN TO THE COVER OF
THIS BOOK
Dear Trout Fishing in America:
I met your friend Fritz in Washington Square. He told me
to tell you that his case went to a jury and that he was acquit-
ted by the jury.
He said that it was important for me to say that his case
went to a jury and that he was acquitted by the jury,
said it again.
He looked in good shape. He was sitting in the sun. There's
an old San Francisco saying that goes: "It's better to rest in
Washington Square than in the California Adult Authority. "
How are things in New York?
Yours,
"An Ardent Admirer"
Dear Ardent Admirer:
It's good to hear that Fritz isn't in jail. He was very wor-
ried about it. The last time I was in San Francisco, he told
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poem by Richard Brautigan
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Part 4 of Trout Fishing in America
THE AUTOPSY OF
TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA
This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout
Fishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died in
Missolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shores
of Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick Hot
Springs, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.
The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America:
"The body was in excellent state and appeared as one that
had died suddenly of asphyxiation. The bony cranial vault
was opened and the bones of the cranium were found very
hard without any traces of the sutures like the bones of a
person 80 years, so much so that one would have said that
the cranium was formed by one solitary bone. . . . The
meninges were attached to the internal walls of the cranium
so firmly that while sawing the bone around the interior to
detach the bone from the dura the strength of two robust men
was not sufficient. . . . The cerebrum with cerebellum
weighed about six medical pounds. The kidneys were very
large but healthy and the urinary bladder was relatively
small. "
On May 2, 1824, the body of Trout Fishing in America
left Missolonghi by ship destined to arrive in England on the
evening of June 29, 1824.
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poem by Richard Brautigan
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The September Gale
I'M not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing!
It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,--
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.
Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled!
They seemed like bursting craters!
And oaks lay scattered on the ground
As if they were p'taters
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,--
I lost my Sunday breeches!
I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds, as if
The devil had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches,--
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,--
"My breeches! O my breeches!"
That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had whistled through them!
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Dao Of Fishing
Does a trout know it lives in water?
A lake her own watery universe,
where survival depends on speed
and an ability to find sustenance
The trout prays to her fish god;
“Lord god I hunger…feed me”
As if magic,
a fat worm drifts down from above
Instinctively the eager trout greedily
gulps down the wiggler
She then feels something sharp
in her gullet, then something
pulling her upward
She struggles;
Twisting and writhing
She’s pulled to waters surface
where she desperately jumps
It’s no use; the pull is too strong
Giving up she relaxes,
as a green web scoops down
and roughly encircles her
She gasps for breath in this dry
hostile alien environment
She hears a strange sound;
“Dad, ain’t she a beauty”
A beefy hand grasps the trout
Something cold is thrust down her throat
She feels the sharp hook dislodge and pull free
She makes a weak attempt to wiggle free,
just as another beefy hand holding something
wooden strikes downward…
She’s losing consciousness, but fights the
looming blackness long enough to think;
“God why hast thou forsaken me”
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poem by Ray Lucero
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Not A Dry Eye In The House
Not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
I can still see you standing there
Midnight wind blowing through your hair
Kisses sweet in the salty air
When love was forever
Turn the page and we fade to blue
The scene has changed now Im without you
Walked away when the act was through
And the dream was over
It was almost like a movie - the way you said goodbye
You must have a lot of time rehearsing each and every line
Now theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a smile left on my face
The endings just too sad to take
And theres not a dry eye
Not a dry eye in the house
The greatest story was you and me
Had it all we had everything, but now the
Storys done its just history
The last act is over
You every line had the sweetest sound
Your every touch turned my world around
But the light came up and my world crashed down
End of show - its over
It was almost like a movie
Those nights we touched the stars
Time stood still for you and i
Now its sad enough to make you cry
Now theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
Not a smile left on my face
The endings just too sad to take
And theres not a dry eye
Not a dry eye in the house
Act one - the storys just begun
Act two - I fell in love with you
Act three - knew it was meant to be
Act four - you dont love me no more
And theres not a dry eye in the house
After loves curtain comes down
Listen and youll hear the sound
Hear the sound of a heart breaking
[...] Read more
song performed by Meat Loaf
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Rural Sports: A Georgic - Canto I.
You, who the sweets of rural life have known,
Despise the ungrateful hurry of the town;
In Windsor groves your easy hours employ,
And, undistub'd, yourself and muse enjoy.
Thames, listens to thy strains, and silent flows,
And no rude winds through rustling osiers blows,
While all his wondering nymphs around thee throng,
To hear the Syrens warble in thy song.
But I, who ne'er was bless'd by fortune's hand,
Nor brighten'd plough shares in paternal land,
Long in the noisy town have been immur'd,
Respir'd its smoke, and all its cares endur'd,
Where news and politics divide mankind,
And schemes of state involve the uneasy mind:
Faction embroils the world; and every tongue
Is mov'd by flattery, or with scandal hung:
Friendship, for sylvan shades, the palace flies,
Where all must yield to interest's dearer ties,
Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,
And honesty forsakes them all by turns;
While calumny upon each party's thrown,
Which both promote, and both alike disown.
Fatigu'd at last; a calm retreat I chose,
And sooth'd my harass'd mind with sweet repose,
Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime,
Inspire my silvan song, and prompt my rhyme.
My muse shall rove through flowery meads and plains,
And deck with rural sports her native strains,
And the same road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan swain, and you.
'Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,
And strings the sinews of the industrious swain.
Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,
Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care,
In the revolving labours of the year.
When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd,
And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground,
The labourer with the bending scythe is seen,
Shaving the surface of the waving green,
Of all her native pride disrobes the land,
And meads lays waste before the sweeping hand:
While the mounting sun the meadow glows,
The fading herbage round he loosely throws;
But if some sign portend a lasting shower,
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poem by John Gay
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The Lake Josephus Days
We left Little Redfish for Lake Josephus, traveling along the good names — from Stanley to Capehorn to Seafoam to the Rapid River, up Float Creek, past the Greyhound Mine and then to Lake Josephus, and a few days after that up the trail to Hell-diver Lake with the baby on my shoulders and a good limit of trout waiting in Hell-diver.
Knowing the trout would wait there like airplane tickets for us to come, we stopped at Mushroom Springs and had a drink of cold shadowy water and some photographs taken of the baby and me sitting together on a log.
I hope someday we'll have enough money to get those pictures developed. Sometimes I get curious about them, wondering if they will turn out all right. They are in suspension now like seeds in a package. I'll be older when they are developed and easier to please. Look there's the baby! Look there's Mushroom Springs! Look there's me!
I caught the limit of trout within an hour of reaching Hell-diver, and my woman, in all the excitement of good fishing, let the baby fall asleep directly in the sun and when the baby woke up, she puked and I carried her back down the trail.
My woman trailed silently behind, carrying the rods and the fish. The baby puked a couple more times, thimblefuls of gentle lavender vomit, but still it got on my clothes, and her face was hot and flushed.
We stopped at Mushroom Springs. I gave her a small drink of water, not too much, and rinsed the vomit taste out of her mouth. Then I wiped the puke off my clothes and for some strange reason suddenly it was a perfect time, there at Mushroom Springs, to wonder whatever happened to the Zoot suit.
Along with World War II and the Andrews Sisters, the Zoot suit had been very popular in the early 40s. I guess they were all just passing fads.
A sick baby on the trail down from Hell-diver, July 1961, is probably a more important question. It cannot be left to go on forever, a sick baby to take her place in the galaxy, among the comets, bound to pass close to the earth every 173 years.
She stopped puking after Mushroom Springs, and I carried her back down along the path in and out of the shadows and across other nameless springs, and by the time we got down to Lake Josephus, she was all right.
She was soon running around with a big cutthroat trout in her hands, carrying it like a harp on her way to a concert — ten minutes late with no bus in sight and no taxi either.
poem by Richard Brautigan
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The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver
"Son," said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"you've need of clothes to cover you,
and not a rag have I.
"There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
Nor thread to take stitches.
"There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,"
And she began to cry.
That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,—
"Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows.
"It's lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let
His son go around!"
And she made a queer sound.
That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.
I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.
"Son," said my mother,
"Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap."
And, oh, but we were silly
For half and hour or more,
Me with my long legs,
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poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Today's Teardrops
Today's teardrops are tomorrow's rainbows
And tomorrow's rainbows I will share
Share with you
So dry your eyes little girl, dry your eyes
We're gunna see skies of blue
Had a tough time gettin' started
Maybe just a little downhearted
All you gotta do is count to ten
Baby you'll be smiling when
Today's teardrops are tomorrow's rainbows
And tomorrow's rainbows I will share
Share with you
So dry your eyes little girl, dry your eyes
We're gunna see skies of blue
Gonna be just love and gladness
Don't wanna hear nothin' 'bout sadness
Come a little closer, come to me
With each kiss you're gunna see
Today's teardrops are tomorrow's rainbows
And tomorrow's rainbows I will share
Share with you
So dry your eyes little girl, dry your eyes
We're gunna see skies of blue
Gonna be just love and gladness
Don't wanna hear nothin' 'bout sadness
Come a little closer, come to me
With each kiss you're gunna see
Today's teardrops are tomorrow's rainbows
And tomorrow's rainbows I will share
Share with you
So dry your eyes little girl, dry your eyes
We're gunna see skies of blue
So dry your eyes little girl, dry your eyes
song performed by Fountains Of Wayne
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sleeping With Ghosts
The seas evaporated
Though it comes as no surprise
These clouds were seeing
Their explosions in the sky
It seems its written
But we cant read between the line
Hush
Its okay
Dry your eye
Dry your eye
Soulmate dry your eye
Dry your eye
Soulmate dry your eye
Cause soulmates never die
This one world vision
Turns us in to compromise
What goods religion
When its each other we despise
Damn the government
Damn the killing
Damn the lies
Hush
Its okay
Dry your eyes
Dry your eyes
Soulmate dry your eyes
Dry your eyes
Soulmate dry your eyes
Cause soulmates never die
Soulmates never die
Never die
Soulmates never die
Never die...
Soulmates never die
Soulmates never die
Soulmates never die
Soulmates never die
song performed by Placebo
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Bridal of Pennacook
We had been wandering for many days
Through the rough northern country. We had seen
The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud,
Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lake
Of Winnepiseogee; and had felt
The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy isles
Which stoop their summer beauty to the lips
Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds,
Silent with wonder, where the mountain wall
Is piled to heaven; and, through the narrow rift
Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet
Beats the mad torrent with perpetual roar,
Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind
Comes burdened with the everlasting moan
Of forests and of far-off waterfalls,
We had looked upward where the summer sky,
Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun,
Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags
O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land
Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed
The high source of the Saco; and bewildered
In the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills,
Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud,
The horn of Fabyan sounding; and atop
Of old Agioochook had seen the mountains'
Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick
As meadow mole-hills,—the far sea of Casco,
A white gleam on the horizon of the east;
Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills;
Moosehillock's mountain range, and Kearsarge
Lifting his granite forehead to the sun!
And we had rested underneath the oaks
Shadowing the bank, whose grassy spires are shaken
By the perpetual beating of the falls
Of the wild Ammonoosuc. We had tracked
The winding Pemigewasset, overhung
By beechen shadows, whitening down its rocks,
Or lazily gliding through its intervals,
From waving rye-fields sending up the gleam
Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon
Rising behind Umbagog's eastern pines,
Like a great Indian camp-fire; and its beams
At midnight spanning with a bridge of silver
The Merrimac by Uncanoonuc's falls.
There were five souls of us whom travel's chance
Had thrown together in these wild north hills
A city lawyer, for a month escaping
From his dull office, where the weary eye
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Pickthorn Manor
I
How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day!
A steely silver, underlined with blue,
And flashing where the round clouds, blown away,
Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through
And tip the edges of the waves with shifts
And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems
Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp
As wind through leafless stems.
The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts
Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts
Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp.
II
Her little feet tapped softly down the path.
Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze
Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath
Of fallen petals on the grass, could please
Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside
With a swift move, and a half-angry frown.
She stopped to pull a daffodil or two,
And held them to her gown
To test the colours; put them at her side,
Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried
Some new arrangement, but it would not do.
III
A lady in a Manor-house, alone,
Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke
Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown
Too apathetic even to rebuke
Her idleness. What is she on this Earth?
No woman surely, since she neither can
Be wed nor single, must not let her mind
Build thoughts upon a man
Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth
Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth,
And when she thought of him her eyes were kind.
IV
Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing.
Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel
Other than strange delight at her wife's doing.
Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal
Over her face, and then her lips would frame
Some little word of loving, and her eyes
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poem by Amy Lowell
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Soul Mates
The sea's evaporating, though it comes as no surprise
These clouds we're seeing, they're explosions in the sky
It seems its written, but we can't read between the lines
Hush, its okay, dry your eyes
dry your eyes
Soulmate dry your eyes
dry your eyes
Soulmate dry your eyes, 'cause soulmates never die
This one world vision turns us into compromise
What is religion when its each other we despise)
Damn the government
Damn their killing, damn their lies
(its okay)
Dry your eyes
Soulmate dry your eyes
Dry your eyes
Soulmate dry your eyes, cause soulmates never die
Soulmates never die(x4)
never die
Soulmates never die
Soulmates never die
song performed by Placebo
Added by Lucian Velea
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Colder In The Rain
Feeling confused about the things that i have seen
Nothing seems to be real everything's a dream
Which causes me to question
What life really means
This is our world
Can't take no more
I'm breaking, help me
Tell me where to go
In time i'm gonna find my own sweet way
My tears will dry
I don't know why
It's getting colder in the rain
But the summertime
Got left behind
And there's no one else to blame
Sitting here thinking about the place we're going to
Not knowing where or what might happen if we both flew
Even though I know i've made mistakes
I will learn from every one
This is awful
Can't take no more
I'm breaking, help me
Tell me where to go
In time i'm gonna find my own sweet way
My tears will dry
I don't know why
It's getting colder in the rain
But the summertime
Got left behind
And there's no one else to blame
My tears will dry (Tears will dry)
I don't know why
It's getting colder in the rain (Colder in the rain)
But the summertime
Got left behind
And there's no one else to blame (Yeah)
And there's no one else to blame........
My tears will dry (My tears will dry)
I don't know why
It's getting colder in the rain (Colder in the rain)
But the summertime (Summertime)
Got left behind
And there's no one else to blame
(No one else to blame)
My tears will dry (my tears will dry)
I don't know why (I don't know why)
It's getting colder in the rain (Colder in the rain)
But the summertime (Summertime)
Got left behind (Got left behind)
And there's no one else to blame
[...] Read more
song performed by Sugababes
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A Story at Dusk
An evening all aglow with summer light
And autumn colour—fairest of the year.
The wheat-fields, crowned with shocks of tawny gold,
All interspersed with rough sowthistle roots,
And interlaced with white convolvulus,
Lay, flecked with purple shadows, in the sun.
The shouts of little children, gleaning there
The scattered ears and wild blue-bottle flowers—
Mixed with the corn-crake's crying, and the song
Of lone wood birds whose mother-cares were o'er,
And with the whispering rustle of red leaves—
Scarce stirred the stillness. And the gossamer sheen
Was spread on upland meadows, silver bright
In low red sunshine and soft kissing wind—
Showing where angels in the night had trailed
Their garments on the turf. Tall arrow-heads,
With flag and rush and fringing grasses, dropped
Their seeds and blossoms in the sleepy pool.
The water-lily lay on her green leaf,
White, fair, and stately; while an amorous branch
Of silver willow, drooping in the stream,
Sent soft, low-babbling ripples towards her:
And oh, the woods!—erst haunted with the song
Of nightingales and tender coo of doves—
They stood all flushed and kindling 'neath the touch
Of death—kind death!—fair, fond, reluctant death!—
A dappled mass of glory!
Harvest-time;
With russet wood-fruit thick upon the ground,
'Mid crumpled ferns and delicate blue harebells.
The orchard-apples rolled in seedy grass—
Apples of gold, and violet-velvet plums;
And all the tangled hedgerows bore a crop
Of scarlet hips, blue sloes, and blackberries,
And orange clusters of the mountain ash.
The crimson fungus and soft mosses clung
To old decaying trunks; the summer bine
Drooped, shivering, in the glossy ivy's grasp.
By day the blue air bore upon its wings
Wide-wandering seeds, pale drifts of thistle-down;
By night the fog crept low upon the earth,
All white and cool, and calmed its feverishness,
And veiled it over with a veil of tears.
The curlew and the plover were come back
To still, bleak shores; the little summer birds
Were gone—to Persian gardens, and the groves
Of Greece and Italy, and the palmy lands.
[...] Read more
poem by Ada Cambridge
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An Eagle's Life
An Eagle soars high above,
Skimming seas, lakes and cove,
Piercing, sharp, an Eagle's eye,
Swooping down, did spy,
Swimming trout en route,
Mother Nature's food.
She swooped down and without a doubt,
The majestic eagle has just caught a trout.
With one swipe, her claw did grab,
A fleshy trout, hardly a flap.
poem by Philo Yan
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