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E. H. Johnson, forest, in English Clear filters

DreamyE. H. Johnson

Nocturne

The rustling darkness in the sleepy wood Glides toward the water to quench its thirst, Studies the tracks where a deer has stood, Then crosses the beach in an eager burst. The waters ripple as Night drinks her fill. Stars fall on the lake from her blue-black hair. She lingers, dreaming, as the air grows chill, Then gathering her jewels, she returns to her lair.
CheerfulE. H. Johnson

Porcupine

He waddled down to the creek each day, Chuckling over some secret joke, A proud old man who would not give way To any of the forest folk. His armor of quills rattled and clicked, Warning all to clear his path. Even the bears knew they were licked; They turned aside in helpless wrath. Quietly, slowly, he would drink his fill, Keeping a wary eye on me. Then, wheezing, he would climb the hill, Ludicrous in his great dignity.
RomanticE. H. Johnson

Vagabond

Seek not to detain me when I choose to go, I am a vagabond, as you well know. And though I tarry here beside your fire, My gypsy heart still knows its old desire. For I am not one to mingle with the crowd; I long for quiet, when folks get too loud. Give me the trails where deep silence reigns, The winding rivers, and green forest lanes. When horizons beckon, they destroy my will; I want to explore beyond the next hill. Let us part without any painful scenes; Farewell is what loving a vagabond means.
AngryE. H. Johnson

The Abattoir

I hate the sawmill’s greedy whine As it slaughters a bleeding pine, And fear the ugly saw that chews Its way into a tree's sinews. I flinch on seeing the bones all piled Out in the yard, naked, defiled, And dread the whistle’s cry for more As tree-butchers remove the gore. It is sad to think how callously My fellowman can slay a tree. Alas, that home of birds and breeze Should suffer such indignities.
ContemplativeE. H. Johnson

Spring Creek

In the Spring it is trout in a shadowy hole, That lure me back to the creek; Its quiet beauty is balm for my soul; The waters a sermon speak. In Summer it is berries big and sweet; The lazy drone of the bees; The forest creatures I so often meet, And the fragrance of every breeze. In Autumn it is the roar of a gun; The startled, elusive deer. The pride in a trophy sportingly won, When season’s end draws near. In Winter it is trap-lines long and cold, The return to my warm log camp; The adventure stories which at night are told, By the light of a flickering lamp.
CheerfulE. H. Johnson

Fresh Snowfall

The wildfolk print their newspaper again, Their stories neatly typed on glistening snow, Depicting life as lived there in the glen, Such joys and tragedies as we, too, know. A mouse’s fragile etchings are displayed, Between news items of the neighborhood. Down by the creek, the paper’s edge is frayed, Where muskrats tore it in a search for food. An item says the rabbits have their young. The frisky squirrel has taken him a wife. Well, let us hope she isn't too high-strung; He is not the kind to lead a quiet life! Alas, there has been a big increase in crime; The vicious weasels have been on the prowl. Their blood-lust always rises in snow-time; They are even crueler killers than the owl.

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