Summer 1987 • Vol. IX No. 3 A PoemJuly 1, 1987 |

On Thinking about Gilbert White in Our Nuclear Age

Just behind the houseon a path which followsthe stone wall, the lineof oaks, I walk each eveningtowards the river. Again,as every year. I take notes,look for nests, checkfledgling leaves for progress.Three weeks from now, warblerswill be back. Already phoebeshave built their nest.In the meadow, robins leantheir heads and listenas though providinga demonstration of the wayto seek and find. Last yearI saw a woodcock fly up,spiral unimaginably high,then fall in loopslike a plane going downin a tailspin. On this dayin 1777, he notedgooseberries and honeysucklehad begun to bloom.The meadows were yellowwith dandelions. He plantedthree Provence rosesand a Newington-nectarineagainst the fruit wall.And some columbines, SweetWilliams and hollyhocks.(Each year my hollyhockscome up strong, thenare attacked by beetles.)His turtle, Timothy,"came forth from his winterretreat." A cuckoo workedits natural rhyme. Here,peepers trill—those toadsthat have learned to sing—and a sycamore providesanoth

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A Momentary Order

By A. Poulin, Jr.

Just behind the houseon a path which followsthe stone wall, the lineof oaks, I walk each eveningtowards the river. Again,as every year. I take notes,look for nests, checkfledgling leaves for […]

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