The Song That The Morning Brings

As I am going along the road by the meadow mouse brook,
I hear and see, a quarter of a mile northwest, on those conspicuous white oaks near the river, the crows buffeting some intruder. The crows had betrayed to me some large bird of the hawk kind. I suspected it before I looked carefully. I saw several crows on the oaks, and also what looked to my naked eye like a cluster of the palest and most withered oak leaves with a black base about as big as a crow. Looking with my glass, I saw that it was a great bird. The crows sat about a rod off, higher up, while another crow was occasionally diving at him, and all were cawing. The great bird was just starting. It was chiefly a dirty white with great broad wings with black tips and black on other parts, giving it the appearance of dirty white, barred with black. I am not sure whether it was a white-headed eagle or a fish hawk. There appeared much more white than belongs to either, and more black than the fish hawk has. It rose and wheeled, flapping several times, till it got under way; then, with its rear to me, presenting the least surface, it moved off steadily in its orbit over the woods northwest, with the slightest possible undulation of its wings,—a noble planetary motion, like Saturn with its ring seen edgewise. It is so rare that we see a large body self-sustained in the air. While crows sat still and silent and confessed their lord. Through my glass I saw the outlines of this sphere against the sky, trembling with life and power as it skimmed the topmost twigs of the wood toward some more solitary oak amid the meadows.
--Henry David Thoreau (journal entry for April 6, 1856)
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from Monument Point (Ruus Collection)
Widforss Point greenery (Ruus Collection)
Grateful Dead: Spanish Jam
in Turquoise Canyon
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there comes a redeemer but he slowly too fades away
there follows behind him a wagon that's loaded with clay
the seeds that were silent now burst into bloom and decay
night comes so quiet, it's close on the heels of the day
wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world
the heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own
wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings
the heart has its seasons, its evenings and songs of its own
--robert hunter/jerry garcia (from eyes of the world )