Though tethered to the earth I joy in flight,
My wings a seagull flying smoothly over
The ponds gay-trimmed with mallards, meadow clover
Tauny with baby calves; where yellow-bright
With buttercups the cool spring winds. Not trite
But new with freshness comes the call of plover
From golding seas of wheat. At dusk my rover
Eyes see a lane . . . an open door . . . a light . . . .
How good the summer evening gives me wings;
That childhood trailways carve the paths for age!
What joy--as fragrance lifts from mountain sage--
Companioning with dear, familiar things!
