|John James Audobon, Plate #111 Birds of America|
I love birds, but hardly know anything about them, even though I regularly feed them, hear them, see them, and find them dead. Next week this time I will be in the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge with a group of 16 birders, and so I should soon know more.
Coincidentally I have two photos in a local art and poetry exhibit, only there because the curator is a friend and thought to invite me. The exhibit is inspired by Emily Dickinson's poem #314. She did not title her poems.
Dickinson's first line "Hope is the thing with feathers" is the focus of the art and poetry of this show.
The poem, and a few more photos:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.