A secretive, diminutive bird that seldom vocalizes outside the breeding season, the Virginia Rails are a hard bird to track so its precise status is unknown. One thing is for certain, the oil that has proven so deadly for the other wildlife of the Gulf region will have an impact on these vulnerable creatures.
Nature Sleeps
The mountains, the rocks, the peaks
are sleeping,
Uplands hush
Thousands of swamp things are still,
Creatures under every bush
Crouch, and the bees
Rest in their honeyed ease,
In the sea fish swim,
And each bird folds its wings over its head.
Rafael Espinoza, age 14
Baton Rouge, Louisiana
River of Words 2005
Beyond My Window
The trees are naked now
Remnants of their summer blankets litter the ground
unembarrassed by their bare bodies they stand tall
limbs reach with bony fingers for cryptic reasons
the crisp bite of the evening air makes me shiver
but not them
how odd the trees are
their boldness to stand and be noticed
to go exposed in the coldest part of the year
they need no coat or woolen socks
this is their time to be seen
I can see them dance beyond my window at night
An elaborate and arcane ballet
Swaying in cadence with the wind
They throw parties every now and then
All birds welcome
Rest on our shoulders
You have quite a journey yet
In the summer they rest
Slumber beneath a quilt of green
Daniel Koepp, age 17
Baton Rouge, Louisiana
River of Words 2005
Bird
BY
Pablo Neruda
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
High from the earth I heard a bird
BY
Emily Dickinson
High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care, --
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
At half-past three a single bird
BY
Emily Dickinson
At half-past three a single bird
Unto a silent sky
Propounded but a single term
Of cautious melody.
At half-past four, experiment
Had subjugated test,
And lo! her silver principle
Supplanted all the rest.
At half-past seven, element
Nor implement was seen,
And place was where the presence was,
Circumference between.
A Bird
A bird came down the walk,
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.
by Emily Dickinson
For a Bird
I found him lying near the tree;
I folded up his wings.
Oh, little bird,
You never heard
The song the summer sings.
I wrapped him in a shirt I wore in winter;
it was blue.
Oh, little bird,
You never heard
The song I sang to you.
by Myra Cohn Livingstone
In the Beginning
In the beginning, when the earth was new,
birds had no feet but only flew.
When they crashed upon their nose,
Mother Nature gave them toes.
Then they dined standing on the beach,
catching all the fish within their reach.
And when they fought for fish to eat,
Mother Nature stretched their feet.
"Nobody here can fall asleep!
So, you long-legged birds, fish in the deep.
Short-legged birds, fish near the shore,
And stop that fighting! You hear? No more!"
by Frank Asch
Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou