Flourishing vine, whose kindling clusters glow
Beneath the autumnal sun, none taste of thee:
For thou dost shroud a ruin, and below
The rotting bones of dead antiquity.
“Why, Jon, why?” his mother asked. “Why is it so hard to be like the rest of the flock, Jon? Why can’t you leave low flying to the pelicans, the albatross? Why don’t you eat? Jon, you’re bone and feathers!”
“I don’t mind being bone and feathers, Mum. I just want to know what I can do in the air and what I can’t, that’s all. I just want to know.”
Mallard On The Oneida
Eliot Ware (RiverHouse Photos)