WHERE THE CARDINAL WENT A flash of red! Where did that cardinal go! I edge myself through a tangle of underbrush, cedars and spruce into an open space, and now I know where the cardinal went and why. There he sits, on a low flung cedar tree in the heart of an island which rests in the center of a lily pond. He flirts with an audacious, brilliant wing toward the opposite side of the island by means of a fallen log. Once across I look and look– rising from luxurious grasses are myriads of that unique flower– the pitcher plant. From clusters of pitchers close to the earth rise the tall slender flowers, gloriously red in their maturity. Low bush cranberries scatter themselves among the low growing cedars, and in the pond snow white water lilies uncover their hearts of gold and their fragrances mingles with the piny odors of the surrounding woods. “Like it?” says the cardinal, his feathers bright against the cedar. I nod “Sing Beautiful”, I whisper, and the cardinal sings for both of us, and who but Emerson can interpret his song- “If eyes were made for seeing, then Beauty is its own excuse for being.” -Sadie Seagrave
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 03:11:12 +0000
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