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)