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I'm not talking about a faeryland, just habitat.
Trunks and leaves and roots,
Clumps of fur and scattered feathers,
Springs rising out of the ground,
Territorial wood thrush song
And groundhogs trundling toward their holes.
The white bloodroot blooms
In order to draw insects For pollination.
Tanagers sing high among leafy shadows
So their brilliance doesn't draw predatory attention.
The fox kits frolic
As practice for fighting later.
Sunlight is the debris of burning
That takes place nine million miles away.
So pity my foolish heart if
When startled by a hummingbird
That swoops down right in front of me,
It leaps as if at the voice of God.
When one man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact to his understanding, I foresee that all men will at length establish their lives on that basis. ---H. D. Thoreau