Thoreau, He Had Questions

In his journal, Thoreau asks questions no one else heard.

Is it the tree sparrow whose jingles I hear?
Do not these days always succeed the first frosty mornings?
Where are the shiners now, and the trout?
Was that not an owl’s feather I found half a mile beyond?
Are these little scratches made by squirrels?

How each could never be answered:
The feather of an owl, the scratch of a squirrel.

I watch the squirrels chase each other
Round and round and round the oak tree.
Somewhere a dog sounds almost human.
The sun ignites into rainbows
Then disappears.

The daily riddles of this earth
Fall like a steady bright rain.
They pour into puddles
And we splash on through.

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