Whitman had a lot of songs,long and rambling, so many notesventuring all over the melodic rangefrom the highest octaves to thelowest reaches of the bass clef If he was written out on a staff,codified into halves, wholes, and sixteenths,he would be a tangle to rival Brahms,with a reach beyond Rachmaninoff or Liszt You wouldn’t wantContinue reading “Self Singing”
At dusk the birds havea lot to say to each othereverybody has a lot ofcatching up to do, aftertheir busy days Perched together at last,there are meals to recount,close calls with danger(in the form of snakes,or cars, or cats)new friends made,who has hatchlings andwho is still waiting The evening fills up withtheir noisy chatty banter,soContinue reading “June”
This morning a song is happening. . . .