Holes
by Tim Wynne-Jones
Holes are shy and dull and round.
They're nothing, but don't remind them.
They live in sweaters, socks and crowns.
In flutes and Swiss cheese, holes abound.
And they hardly ever make a sound.
And some end up in the lost and found.
But most are buried in the ground.
You have to dig to find them.
Holes.
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The Snare
by James Stephens
I hear a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.
But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid;
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid,
Making everything afraid
Wrinkling up his little face,
As he cries again for aid;
And I cannot find the place!
And I cannot find the place
Where his paw is in the snare;
Little one! Oh, little one!
I am searching everywhere
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Rattlesnake Skipping Song
by Dennis Lee
Mississauga rattlesnakes
Eat brown bread.
Mississauga rattlesnakes
Fall down dead.
If you catch a caterpillar
Feed him apple juice;
But if you catch a rattlesnake
Turn him loose!
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Rattlesnake
by Byrd Baylor
I move so flat against
the earth
that I know all
its mysteries.
I understand
the way sun
clings to rocks
after the sun is gone.
I understand
the long cold shadows
that wrap themselves
around me
and slow my blood
and call me back
into the earth.
On the south side of
a rocky slope
where sun can warm
my hiding place,
I wait for the cold
that draws me into
sleep.
I understand
waking
in spring,
still cold,
hardly moving,
seeking warmth,
seeking food,
still cold,
hardly moving,
seeking warmth,
seeking food,
going from darkness
to light.
I understand
waking
in spring,
the shedding
of old skin
and the tenderness
of my new soft shining
self
flowing
smooth as water
over sand
I understand
the sudden strike,
the death I hold
behind my fangs.
Wherever I go
I cast
a shadow of fear.
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My Friend
by Emily Hearn
my friend is
like bark
rounding a tree
he warms
like sun
on a windy day
he cools
like water
in the hot noon
his voice
is ready as a spring bird
he is
my friend
and I
am his
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And My Heart Soars
by Chief Dan George
The beauty of the trees,
the softness of the air,
the fragrance of the grass,
speaks to me.
The summit of the mountain,
the thunder of the sky,
the rhythm of the sea,
speaks to me.
The faintness of the stars,
the freshness of the morning,
the dew drop on the flower,
speaks to me.
The strength of fire,
the taste of salmon,
the trail of the sun,
And the life that never goes away,
They speak to me.
And my heart soars.
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Jeremy's House
by Lois Simmie
Jeremy hasn't a roof on his house
For he likes to look at the stars;
When he lies in his bed
With them all overhead
He imagines that he can see Mars.
Sometimes a thunderstorm lights up the sky
And Jeremy gets soaking wet;
But he says that it's worth it
To lie in his bed
And see folks go past in a jet.
He's counting the stars in the Milky Way,
It's going to take him forever;
But Jeremy's patiently
Counting away
For he knows its a worthwhile endeavor.
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Night Creature
by Lilian Moore
I like
the quiet breathing
of the night,
the tree talk
the wind-swish
the star light.
Day is
glare-y
loud
scary.
Day bustles.
Night rustles.
I like
night.
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How to Tell the Top of a Hill
by John Ciardi
The top of a hill
Is not until
The bottom is below.
And you have to stop
When you reach the top
For there's not more UP to go.
To make it plain
Let me explain:
The one most reason why
You have to stop
When you reach the top - - is:
The next step up is sky.
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A Lazy Lizard
by Michele Krueger
A lazy lizard lying
on a sunny granite ledge,
stretches out its lazy toes
until they touch the edge.
Then it flits its lazy tongue
to catch a morning munch,
a crunch to quell its appetite
until its lazy lunch.
It flips upon its lazy back
and then it flops on top.
For even lizards know how much
to sun and when to stop!
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Lizard
by Byrd Baylor
When my mother laid her eggs
she looked for sand
that was just right.
It had to be damp
and it had to be warmed
all day by sun.
Down in that sand
she buried her eggs.
When she left,
she didn't come back.
There was any need to.
Sand and sun
are mother enough
for lizards.
I dug my way
to sunlight.
It didn't take me long
to flick my tongue
and catch a gnat
and learn
that when the sun goes down
you can be warm
beneath a little mound
of sand.
It didn't take me long
to learn
the way
a lizard runs - -
just a flash of speed
across the sand,
almost too fast
to be a shape.
Now
the hotter the sun,
the better I like it.
The rougher the country,
the faster I run.
When I rest,
looking out over
the world
from a rock,
I show
the bright shining
color of my underside.
I seem to be made
of earth
and sky.
But then
I run again
and I'm nothing
but a blur
in the hot white sun.
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Rich Lizard
by Deborah Chandra
The rich lizard
shed his skin
of silver coins,
dropping them
in the dry grass.
Strange-wild thoughts
shook him,
warming his blood
to grander things,
and he tore himself
loose - -
ran off,
leaving behind
his wealth of cold coins.
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If I Were A Hawk
by Mary Ann Coleman
If I were a hawk,
I would taste the tips of storm clouds
and clutch lightning bolts in my great claws.
I'd fold my wings and dive into forests
green as the Atlantic
with the wind polishing my feathers,
and then flap away again.
I'd fly through a hundred cloud-patched sunsets,
and hammer sungold to the pines with my curved beak.
I'd name the whole sky mine and call aloud to claim it,
circling the world till night eased me down on my nest.
An umbrella of stars over my shoulders,
I'd sleep without fear or nightmare in the dark
if I were a hawk.
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The Sparrow Hawk
by Russell Hoban
Wings like pistols flashing at his sides,
Masked, above the meadow runway rides,
Galloping, galloping with an easy rein.
Below, the field mouse, where the shadow glides,
Holds fast the small purse of his life, and hides.
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Eagle
by Ted Hughes
Big wings dawns dark.
The Sun is hunting.
Thunder collects, under granite eyebrows.
The horizons are ravenous.
The dark mountain has an electric eye.
The Sun lowers its meat-hook.
His spread fingers measure a heaven, then a heaven.
His ancestors worship only him,
And his children's children cry to him alone.
His trapeze is a continent.
The Sun is looking for fuel
With the gaze of a guillotine.
And already the White Hare crouches at the sacrifice,
Already the Fawn stumbles to offer itself up
And the Wolf-Cub weeps to be chosen.
The huddle-shawled lightning-faced warrior
Stamps his shaggy-trousered dance
On an altar of blood.
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Cleaning
by Ann Turner
The owl has vacuumed
the wood again,
leaving two gray nubs
of dust again;
bone of shrew, mole, and bat,
rolled in their own
coughed-up fur.
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The Bird of Night
by Randall Jarrell
A shadow is floating through the moonlight.
Its wings don't make a sound.
Its claws are long, its beak is bright.
Its eyes try all the corners of the night.
It calls and calls: all the air swells and heaves
And washes up and down like water.
The ear that listens to the owl believes
In death. The bat beneath the eaves,
The mouse beside the stone are still as death - -
The owls' air washes them like water.
The owls goes back and forth inside the night,
And the night holds its breath.
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Pack Rat
by Byrd Baylor
I run to
whatever
is shiny,
find out about
anything
new.
I sniff
a gleaming mica chip
a feather that falls
from the sky,
a pale blue turquoise bead,
a button,
the top of an old tin can,
and the pipe
that a miner
smoked by his campfire
and left on the ground
while she slept.
I take it all.
I am a gatherer of treasure . . .
of leaves
and berries and roots,
mesquite beans,
sweet red summer cactus fruit,
and a piece of a clear glass bottle
turned purple by the sun.
I stay
close to home,
close to the trails I know,
close to the rocks where I was born,
close to the cholla cactus
I climb so easily.
Everything I want
is here.
In the cool evenings
I search,
darting from rock to rock,
out of sight of coyotes and owls.
I run back and forth
with my mouth full of treasures.
I go home at sunrise,
pushing
and pulling
and rolling
all the good things
back to my nest,
my pile of sticks and dirt
and cholla cactus thorns.
It holds me safe.
It hides my shining secrets
in the dust.
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Jackrabbit
by Byrd Baylor
The sudden leap,
the instant start,
the burst of speed,
knowing
when to run
and when to freeze,
how to become
a shadow
underneath
a greasewood bush . . .
these are things
I learned
almost at birth.
Now
I lie
on the shadow-side
of a clump of grass.
My long ears bring me
every far-off footstep,
every twig that snaps,
every rustle in the weeds.
I watch
Coyote move
from bush to bush.
I wait
He's almost here.
Now . . .
Now I go
like a zig-zag
lightning flash.
With my ears laid back,
I sail.
Jumping gullies
and bushes and rocks,
doubling back,
circling,
jumping high
to see where my enemy is,
warning rabbits
along the way,
I go.
I hardly touch
the ground.
And suddenly
I disappear.
Let Coyote stand there
sniffing
old jackrabbit trails.
Where I am now
is a
jackrabbit secret.
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Jackrabbit
by Byrd Baylor
Far down in the earth,
quiet as a stone,
I wait for rain.
I wait for
the first summer storm,
for wild, hard, sudden,
heavy rain
that pounds the land
above me
and class me from
my hiding place.
Now
is the time
to dig through darkness
up to the wet
shining world.
Now is the time
for loud toad voices
to sing.
Our sound is everywhere.
It lasts all night,
rising from every puddle,
filling the air
with toad joy.
Tonight we lay our eggs.
Our tadpoles
have to grow
their new toad bodies
before the shallow pools
dry up
and turn to sand,
before we dig our way
back down
into the earth.
The new ones
of our kind
dig, too.
They know
where to go.
They know
how to wait.
And on some rainy dawn,
they'll know
to dig straight
up.
They'll feel the rain.
They'll sing
as I sing now.
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Cactus Wren
by Byrd Baylor
On the hottest
summer afternoons
when desert creatures
look for shade
and stay close to the earth
and keep their voices
low
I sit high on a cactus
and fling
my loud ringing trill
out to the sun . . .
over and over
again.
My home is
in a cholla cactus.
I won't live
where cactus doesn't grow
because I know
the only safe place
for a nest
is a stickery branch
in a cactus thicket.
I like thorns
in all directions.
At the entrance
of my nest
I pile more cactus.
I peck off the spines
where I go
in and out.
It is so good a nest
that when we leave it
other creatures
will move in - -
a family of crickets
or a cactus-climbing mouse.
But now
it holds
six small brown birds
and me.
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Desert Tortoise
by Byrd Baylor
I am the old one here.
Mice
and snakes
and deer
and butterflies
and badgers
come and go.
Centipedes
and eagles
come and go.
But tortoises
grow old
and stay.
Our lives stretch out.
I cross
the same arroyo
that I crossed
when I was young.
returning to
the same safe den
to sleep through
winter's cold.
Each spring,
I warm myself
in the same sun,
search for the same
long tender blades
of green,
and taste the same
ripe juicy cactus fruit.
I know
the slow
sure way
my world
repeats itself.
I know
how I fit in.
My shell still shows
the toothmarks
where a wildcat
thought he had me
long ago.
He didn't know
that I was safe
beneath
the hard brown rock
he tried to bite.
I trust that shell.
I move
at my own speed.
This
is a good place
for an old tortoise
to walk.
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Buzzard
by Byrd Baylor
I am a bird of silence.
I do not sing at dawn
or call out to my mate
across the sky.
Up on the cliff where we roost,
wind is the only sound.
I let it speak
for me.
All day
I ride on waves
of hot dry desert air,
on lifting currents
of heat,
circling without effort,
wheeling
soaring
gliding
drifting
upward.
I move with my large wings
set to the wind.
Beautiful in the sky,
I follow death.
High over the world,
I watch.
Across valleys and canyons
and wide flat desert land,
others of my kind
are watching, too.
If one of us drops down,
another follows,
and another . . .
and from far away,
still others come.
We kill nothing,
harm nothing alive.
I only take what is waste.
When I go
I leave nothing
but bones.
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Coyote
by Byrd Baylor
I may live
hungry.
I may live
on the run.
I may be
a wanderer
and a trickster
and one
who'll try
anything
and a lot too nosy
for my own good
and a lot
too restless, too.
But I'm going to
make it - -
no matter what.
I'll eat anything,
sleep anywhere,
run any distance,
dig for water
if I have to
because
I'm going to
survive
in this dry
rocky land . . .
and while I'm
doing it,
I'm going to
sing
about it.
I sing about cold,
and traps,
and traveling on,
and new soft pups
in a sandy den,
and rabbit hunts,
and the smell of rain.
I sing
for a wandering
coyote band
over there
across the hills,
telling them
coyote things,
saying
We're here
We're here
Alive
In the moonlight.
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Desert Person
by Byrd Baylor
Like any desert creature,
I build my own
safe shelter
with what the desert
gives.
I make thick walls
of mud and straw.
With my own hands
I shape the earth
into a house.
But when I say,
"This is my home,"
another desert person
always knows
that I don't mean
the house.
I mean
the farthest mountain
I can see.
I mean
sunsets
that fill the whole sky
and the colors
of the cliffs
and all their silences
and shadows.
I mean
the desert
is my home.
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Borders
by Arnold Adoff
Great Grandma Ida came from a small village
in Poland
on the Russian border
to America,
on a ship that sailed
for weeks,
on the rough Atlantic
to make a new place for her self;
to work in a factory; to find her father;
to find a man
from a German town on the Polish
to marry; to have and raise a daughter
who would find and marry
a man from a Russian town
And in 1935 they would have a baby boy
in a New York City hospital
Who is daddy now to
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