DAYS AT J. B.’S TURF-FIRES

At sunrise
           the pure clear sound
of the meadow lark
           and later
some notes
           few and simple
yet delicious and perfect
           from the bush-sparrow—
towards noon the reedy trill
           of the robin

Today is the fairest
           sweetest yet
penetrating warmth
           a lovely veil in the air
partly heat-vapour
           and partly from the turf-fires
everywhere in patches
           on the farms

A group of soft maples near by
           silently bursts out in crimson tips
buzzing all day with busy bees
           The white sails
of sloops and schooners
           glide up and down the river
and long trains of cars
           with ponderous roll
or faint bell notes
           almost constantly
on the opposite shore
           The earliest wild flowers
in the woods and fields,
           spicy arbutus
blue liverwort
           frail anemone
and the pretty white blossoms
           of the bloodroot

As I go along the roads
           I like to see the farmers’ fires
in patches
           burning the dry brush
turf and debris
           How the smoke crawls along
flat to the ground slanting
           slowly rising
reaching away
           and at last dissipating

Walt Whitman

(adapted by John Lyons)