Bob White
John Clare Stokes
November mornings I hear the bob white
whistling in the kitchen and know
that soon the cane syrup
will be hopping by the noon light,
the amber sweetness compared to Berts
down in the woods of Mt Beasor,
out from Sopchoppy,
with Mrs Cora teaching Clara the art of
fluffy biscuits for the Methodist preacher,
with a little help from Mary Rudd above,
while little Jumpy climbs high the pummy
pile to claim king of the mountain,
only to be cast down by Robert his best friend
to muster the strength to climb again,
as over the green stamp plates grace is said,
the syrup poured reverently over the hot biscuit,
and later in the night while awake in his bed,
the little boy quietly whistles for bob white,
knowing he will soon answer in the cold
starry November Wakulla night.
