The last few days have been hard on the meadow. Wicked wind storms, trees brought to their knees, critters frantic. Naught we could do to save Squirrels home.
The bunnies in their spring colours seemed on tenterhooks the morning after.
There is clean up to do. Some path clearing. Some saw logs, some fire wood, some new 'rabbitats' (Vince's new word for piles of brush that provide habitat for rabbits).
It is always sad to see a tree come down. Sad to know that souls have suffered loses ~ no matter how small and plentiful that soul's vessel might be . . .
This is not a quiet season. Every bird and every willow bush is using it's outside voice.
This place we call the meadow; is shaking winter from it's roots.
Let the world be unquiet ~
or pr'haps said better by this dear old friend
NOISE, BY POOH
Oh, the butterflies are flying,
Now the winter days are dying,
And the primroses are trying
To be seen.
And the turtle-doves are cooing,
And the woods are up and doing,
For the violets are blue-ing
In the green.
Oh, the honey-bees are gumming
On their little wings, and humming
That the summer, which is coming,
Will be fun.
And the cows are almost cooing,
And the turtle-doves are mooing,
Which is why a Pooh is poohing
In the sun.
For the spring is really springing;
You can see a skylark singing,
And the blue-bells, which are ringing,
Can be heard.
And the cuckoo isn't cooing,
But he's cucking and he's ooing,
And a Pooh is simply poohing
Like a bird.
A.A. Milne
The House At Pooh Corner
