Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

On the green hill
they flock, all white--
patches of snow
kept late by shade.

Heard from the road,
warbling, they talk
like new-hatched frogs,
unwary of bass.

Jim 1986

Nice poem, Jim, about not the brightest birds in the world. Must have something to do with fading them to white -- my grandfather had a story about a pen full of turkeys standing under the rain with their heads up and beaks open instead of going under cover. Follow the leader, they all drowned! But then, my grandfather had a lot of unusual stories ... Sue♥