SUMMER 



Their little lives they yield in summer death, 



And frequently 

 Across the field bereaved their dying breath 



Is brought to me. 



The Summer solstice had come. The 

 long hours of a June day were filled 

 with light which filtered here and there 

 through the leaves overhead and rested 

 on the carpet of the woods, illuminating 

 each decaying leaf or twig or lacey 

 frond, ever moving, ever changing from 

 sunlight to shadow and from golden- 

 yellow to brown and from brown to 

 warm violet. Splashes of sunlight 

 transformed the straight young beeches 

 from gray poles to golden shafts and 

 left the upper reaches of the trees a 

 shimmering sea of transparent golden- 

 green against a dome of blue. There 

 in a quiet spot where the sunlight came 

 to bathe the maple through the long 

 hours of the afternoon, the trailing 

 partridge berry grew and wreathed its 

 vines about the roots of an old pine 

 stump. The air was laden with the 

 redolent aroma from its creamy-white 

 and pink fiowers snuggling in pairs 

 among its shiny green leaves. This 

 spot, within sound of the babbling 

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