“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”
From the poem “Endymion” by John Keats
A brief glimpse of the Decorah Eagle eyrie this morning http://decoraheaglecamalerts.com showed it covered in snow, The Papa securely tucked in the middle of the nest, and the Graylings (aka the three chicklets, Peep, Peck, and Poo) nowhere to be seen. Comfort is found in this second year of waiting for the eaglets to fledge, where we know that the chicks are just fine no matter the weather, and no matter how hard nor harsh they will never be abandoned by the Mama and the Papa, faithful and true.
Could we live in a world where poetry was the only adequate method of communication? A world in which everyone talked like Falstaff or Shylock, or the prophet Isaiah? Where everything was important and no word was allowed to fall casually to the ground and giggled at? No such thing as “whasssup!” or “booyah!” or “sock joy!”?
No, I prefer to live on the outskirts of that literary town; where just saying “weiner steam” out loud makes us laugh, where poetry is held in high regard, and where the eaglets huddle under The Papa’s protective breast feathers, high atop an eyrie in the middle of an Iowa winter.