Something that cannot be said in words . . . Something sweet and unknown . . . The wind . . . the brook . . . Something that comes to a trembling fuller tone Like a waterfall . . . That little brown creature is singing A music of water, a music of worlds; He will fly away south, But his song stays in the heart Once it is heard. —The Hermit Thrush by American Poet Hilda Conkling (1910–1986)
I was in Costa Rica in June as a guest on a naturalist tour. Several with us were professional bird watchers, who delighted in identifying the coos and cries and squawks, and trills. I have forwarded your article to them, knowing they will be thrilled to read it.
I was in Costa Rica in June as a guest on a naturalist tour. Several with us were professional bird watchers, who delighted in identifying the coos and cries and squawks, and trills. I have forwarded your article to them, knowing they will be thrilled to read it.