When you hear buzz around the beehive, you know they're making honey in there.
When clouds are seen wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall then winter is at hand.
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind,-and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
Information is not just something you download from the Web. The way trees grow and where birds choose to live are much better signs of water quality than all the data being collected by the EPA.
Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
Our human calendars take little notice of such dates, but nighthawk migrations tell of shortening days and a season's end.
I was never any good at remembering dates, but now I hardly have to. When the first bulb catalogs get delivered and the hens start laying again, that's all the notice I'll need to know that winter has passed.
You may tell by looking at any twig of the forest, ay, at your very wood-pile, whether its winter is past or not.
Winds are advertisements of all they touch, however much or little we may be able to read them; telling their wanderings even by their scents alone.
