This is the place where I can channel Thoreau; it's in North East Michigan near where the three great lakes join. It is a country of chageable weather, lots of rain and beautiful woodlands. I'm hoping to get there this summer and fall. My thrush here is the hermit thrush.
One hundred and sixty years ago today, Thoreau wrote this in his journal: He may have written more; this sentence was the choice of the editor, Odell Shepherd.
May 11, 1854
The true poet will ever live aloof from society, wild to it, as the finest singer is the wood thrush, a forest bird.
The Heart of Thoreau's Journals, edited by Odell Shepherd, Dover, 1961, page 130.
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