
Sometimes, when a bird cries out,

Or the wind sweeps through a tree,

Or a dog howls in a far-off field

I hold still and listen a long time.
My world turns and goes back to the place
Where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
The bird and the blowing wind
Were like me, and were my brothers.
My soul turns into a tree,
And an animal and a cloud bank.
The Hesse poem sent in by Eleanor Tauber, long time contributer to the blog.
Photographs: Donna Browne








































