Into the Woods

I took our dog into the woods this evening.
Though the day had been unseasonably warm, the woods were cool
And (thank the powers that be) free of the blood-thirsty insects
That plague these parts every April and May.
The dog was overcome; the smells, the sounds and
Sights of the woods in the slanting light
Of the sun that moved slowly toward the hills
Were a transcendent Border Collie experience.
She sniffed every stump, leapt over every fallen tree,
And waded through every brook, lapping the water blissfully.

We walked until daylight began to fade.
We heard the first hermit thrush, who warbled
His unearthly song from a hemlock grove
Like the bird the Vermont poet wrote about.
From the meadow came the odd call of the "dunk-a-doo,"
The American Bittern, who performs his pump handle call,
Then stands perfectly still in the tall grasses,
Tips his head back and his points his beak to the sky
And thus becomes invisible.
But loudest of all, the spring peepers, hyla crucifer,
Rang their tintinnabulations of joy
As if this were the very first spring;
As if it were the very first time life burst
The icy bonds of winter and, finding itself alive,
Rejoiced that such a thing could exist
In the blue waters and the cool air
Of a late April evening.