We do not know,
from where the winds may blow,
while there is solitude,
on this red road-
Some may have heard,
A peckin' on the door,
and look towards the window,
as others watch a scorpion,
Speed across the adobe's floor--
There upon the hiway,
these two do dance and strut,
with a fan of feathers,
to entertain, awe as much-
Hunters eyes search the seeds,
that the wind has blown,
from the grain fields,
Gathers of the gleam,
as now is not for waste,
as clear waters flow forth--
Hecker and Jeckel,
Of such comic lore,
gleam for grain,
along the ditches,
aside the roadway,
that winds this valley,
thru fields of grain, so golden-
Waste is not prudences chore,
as clear waters from an enbankment,
does flow and hence their thirst,
is filled another day,
While upon the roadside,
Hecker and Jeckel do sway--
