Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

[inscription reads] " cry, a vagrancy of the wind perhaps? - the sound of frost melting in the ground? or leaves being ripped apart from their winters soggy embrace? Enchanted I searched the grey ragged swift flowing sky, and saw nothing as I expected. Again came the spiriting call and I searched in vain. This was the poetry of the sound. Finally I saw them, - three in number – fly past in a rollicking up and down flight. As they passed a flutter of rain tossed out of the wind in my face at the same time I heard "