Insular, the green mist of morning,
the woods whispering in profound calm,
the jarring discord of harsh speech
hushed in a dripping through leaves —
born for this, woodland creature
among tall trees and deep ferns,
taking hope from the screech owl
perched in gray silhouette,
muffled, spirit-like gasps
in the wooded morning twilight,
in the dusk of an age.
—with two lines from the journal of Thoreau.
