| Forgotten Fields

On the first of November, I encountered on the slope of a gentle hill at nightfall, a small sedge of Blue Cranes—there were at least thirteen or fifteen in the assembly. I recited to them a poem about one of their kind I completed some time ago, “A Crane at Eventide”—I think it was well-received. I include two of the hasty photographs I took, eager to revel in the encounter without distraction.

Blue Cranes, 1 November 2019. Copyright 2019 Forgotten Fields. All rights reserved.Blue Cranes, 1 November 2019. Copyright 2019 Forgotten Fields. All rights reserved.

| Forgotten Fields

As a poem evolves, a stanza is one moment a clear contender for the final draft and another redundant. When a good stanza cannot be salvaged, I confess I take a moment to mourn its loss!

| Forgotten Fields

I move heaven and earth to achieve internal rhyme in a poem. There are few things quite so satisfying to the traditional poet—it is like solving a puzzle of one’s devising.