Notes From The North: Poetry of Place

4 a.m., and dark in the hollow.
The Barred Owls are calling from tree to tree with an echo that clears the ridge.  First hints of light in the Eastern sky and the owls are replaced with the yelp of Turkey and the gobble of toms in full fan.
And in the east, the tint of red above the ridge, and a stream of valley fog sweeping down upon the field.
Now the Robin in full song and temps at 31 degrees.  Frost upon the greening grass and the first violets closed tight.  Somewhere in the forest gloom the Wood Trush calls in dreams of the Nightengale.
The music of wild geese rings from the bog, and from Pinkham Pond, the haunting calls of the Loon speak of the wildness.
The light fills and the mist swirls back to the sky, Goldfinch sing and Woodpeckers drum.
The morning is full of song.


--Win Brooks, Alna, Maine