In which HP:OotP is about global warming

from Boston poet Xtina

Mockingbird and Whippoorwill

In July it occurs to the mockingbird
that many a human would love to lay
a rough, unfeathered hand upon
its faculty of flight;
and so it takes to the ground, grows round
and mothlike, and becomes,
so far as any human eye can tell,
a whippoorwill.

In August it befalls the whippoorwill
to wonder whether, given its love
for the tip-topped tree, its peculiar penchant
for singsong, those disturbing dreams
in which it swoops and careens as if
aflame, its actual name
might not be of an altogether different feather:
in a word, mockingbird.

-- Troy Jollimore

A beautiful weekend camping with the ladies, weathering rain and swimming the width of Benedict Pond -- water, water everywhere. Also lemonade and Blue Moon and Tsing Tao and cherries. Failing fire, we grilled veggie burgers over finally-perfect little coals til we were too full for s'mores. (To be fair, we'd been eating s'mores all afternoon.) The last torrential squall left behind it a perfect moon just over the trees. New England forest glistens impossibly green after a storm.

Tell you what, though: am I ever glad to be dry now. Good lord.