He who can tell a grosbeak from a grackle,

Red oak from maple, marigold from heather

May get on. But will that other,

Inward drawn,

Who never on his T-shirt smugly

Sewed at camp a badge or feather

For mastery of wood or shore or meadow?

Not likely.

His is not a placid, plotted

Nature trail of brae and coot,

Dingle, willet, plash and pintail,

Botany and fruit,

But thorns, thorns, thorns his flesh to scratch

As he slogs nameless in his briar patch.