A Lone Swallow

"“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me."

 

- Emily Dickinson (1830-1886).

 

If there's one poet I love more than William Blake, it's Emily Dickinson. In many ways the Sage from Amherst was just as difficult to understand as Blake (whom she had read thoroughly of course). But Dickinson is beguiling for the way she dressed her complexity in simple words.

 

Here in this dull industrial landscape a lone swallow flies. We are kin to each other that bird and I. Here I was taking some photographs that capture a moment, and that feathered creature was darting around simply enjoying the thrill of the moment. Somewhere, as Emily Dickinson said, there is "Hope".

Done