Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

glow in a filmy sky. The rollicking wind was gone and the trees stood motionless. A Peter-bird complained a few moments then ceased. A sharp whirr of wings preceded the sight of a tiny bus­tling bird that disappeared in a brush heap. Cicadas sang a last chorus and then gave way to crickets. Once I discerned a humming bird hawk moth hovering over a clump of tall pink flowers. Again I heard a wailing bird cry that puzzled me and I set out to find it. It led me across stream and up into an open meadow. My trip unsuccessful I sat down a moment in the meadow to rest. The light in the filmy western sky was fading. The trees seemed to have a worshipful air about them. From somewhere came the sweet melody of the woodthrush. I thought the sun was gone, but when I got back to camp, and was sitting musing in the creek’s bank, the sky in the west gradually became a mass of flaming red, lightly up the whole sky. The reflection in the water was beautiful. The color died down as suddenly as it came, and darkness began to fall. A bat skimmed over the surface of the water and dis-