A whistler claims the springtime air.
His rhythm stirs the water fair,
And swans, in envy, fly away,
Resigned to cry another day.
The whistler has no thing to mourn,
Unlike pedestrians forlorn.
For meadows come from storms of rain—
Small price for color we shall gain!
Dear whistler, never slow your tune.
Let it last through the afternoon,
And—if you please—into the night.
Your cheery song will set things right.
Mariella Hunt 