When sourgrass bends sweet and heavy over the path and even the sumac fawns at my feet,when little streams run large and muddyunder the light of poison oak,and when tongues of bark hang soddenfrom the paling sheen of eucalyptus—then, then is there moisture enough in my throatfor praise, if only the tiny frogs would returnto bass the bottom of our song.
Rain at dawn on the tent fly, the hum of an idle mosquito. Then another.I pull on a headnet, turn over in my bag.The rain stops. My tentmate breathesthe breath of slumber. I find my clothes, creep outside, sit under a lodgepole pineand read the gospels—all those miracles—till rain returnsto walk across the open page. —Pasayten Wilderness
Here is a sign that surely reflectsthe Puritan heritage of our college.For though it is meant for the coachesthat pull up to the curb, disbursinglimbs of basketball playerswho loiter at the back of the gym,I always think it applies to me,standing here in the new warmthof the winter sun, watching the first green tips of grass emerge from the dampness of the ground.
(Acer circinatum) Gray leaves, ghost leaves buried under the winter snowpack.Now, in spring, they lay their desiccated hands atop the ladders of Oregon grape, hoping to climb out of the grave. —Ross Lake National Recreation Area
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