The Gut in the Winter

Down in the gut the reeds are sighing,Sighing in the wind from the river-side.Down in the gut the reeds are rustling,Shivering and gray in their winter dress.

Go down to the gut with your eyes and ears;Sit on the log that crosses the stream—Silently sit, while your soul is attuning,Attuning to all that the gut will reveal.

Far up the gut the sun is sinking,Cold and colorless, sinking to rest,Etched by the twigs of the birch and the maple,Pausing a moment to whisper good night.

Deep in the reeds, a chorus of twitters,Juncos and sparrows are getting to bed.Poised on a cane a nuthatch is peeringInto his slumberland safe from the wind.

Hard by the stream where a cedar is standing,The cardinal is turning the sheet for his mate;And gliding home to his nest in the pine tree,The osprey has angled his last for the day.

Hush! and be quiet—a splash in the water,A muskrat is leaving his house in the mud;And now fades the twilight o’er landscape and water.The hoot of an owl announces the night.