Thursday, July 24, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
JULY 25, 2002
An abiding cool weather. The promise of rain later today. A greyness overhead.
A drone of distant airplane. The aviation convention in Oshkosh continues. Planes continue to queue up over the Ripon water tower as they line up an approach into the airport at Oshkosh.
Straw from the field of rye has now been baled. Half the field of browned peas is gone. The windrows have been swooped up. Half the field stands yet, turning ever more brown.
A huge flock of sea gulls above Five Corners, like the convention in Oshkosh. Life tends to clump. Like tends to gather with like. None of us wish to go it alone, finally. Yet finally we go alone. Yet finally there is nothing but a desolate wind singing our name, and then we are gone.
Am I being morose to speak in such a way? My statement of it is fairly free of emotion, I think; at least as far as I can tell from where I stand now.
JULY 25, 2002
An abiding cool weather. The promise of rain later today. A greyness overhead.
A drone of distant airplane. The aviation convention in Oshkosh continues. Planes continue to queue up over the Ripon water tower as they line up an approach into the airport at Oshkosh.
Straw from the field of rye has now been baled. Half the field of browned peas is gone. The windrows have been swooped up. Half the field stands yet, turning ever more brown.
A huge flock of sea gulls above Five Corners, like the convention in Oshkosh. Life tends to clump. Like tends to gather with like. None of us wish to go it alone, finally. Yet finally we go alone. Yet finally there is nothing but a desolate wind singing our name, and then we are gone.
Am I being morose to speak in such a way? My statement of it is fairly free of emotion, I think; at least as far as I can tell from where I stand now.
