Whose woods these are I think I know

     A parliament of barred owls has been hanging around my house, snatching frogs and snakes from our pond. One day I saw four at once—three of them on one branch—although I missed that photo. I love hearing the owls, their voices seeming at home in the piney woods our family shares with them. It makes me think of a New Hampshire poet of another season, Robert Frost:

                                           

                                      Whose woods these are I think I know.
                                      His house is in the village though;
                                      He will not see me stopping here
                                      To watch his woods fill up with snow.

                                      My little horse must think it queer
                                      To stop without a farmhouse near
                                      Between the woods and frozen lake
                                      The darkest evening of the year.

                                      He gives his harness bells a shake
                                      To ask if there is some mistake.
                                      The only other sound's the sweep
                                      Of easy wind and downy flake.

                                      The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
                                      But I have promises to keep,
                                      And miles to go before I sleep,
                                      And miles to go before I sleep.