Tuesday, August 19, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
AUGUST 20, 2002
Another lovely day, the kind of beauty we take for granted. In the rage of winter we'd pay big bucks this kind of blueness, the sun, the breath of loveliness. As it is, we say "Oh, another day," and shrug it off. The noise of the birds alone would melt a winter's icy morning, if we could release the sounds in January. The green attack continues - we've had just enough rain that only a few lawns are brown and hard. All the deep trees thrive; the world lies in bounty.
The least bit of wind in the flag at the cemetery, enough to move the stripes slightly.
Ten acres of sea gulls in the field that last year was alfalfa. They are a white blanket on empty soil. The field of corn where the hawk tree stood is being taken - perhaps twelve rows along the ouside edoge are gone, and I can see the top of a picker across the field.
The man on the radio gives the short forecast; he says "it's a pretty day." A pretty day like a pretty girl - what shall you talk her into?
AUGUST 20, 2002
Another lovely day, the kind of beauty we take for granted. In the rage of winter we'd pay big bucks this kind of blueness, the sun, the breath of loveliness. As it is, we say "Oh, another day," and shrug it off. The noise of the birds alone would melt a winter's icy morning, if we could release the sounds in January. The green attack continues - we've had just enough rain that only a few lawns are brown and hard. All the deep trees thrive; the world lies in bounty.
The least bit of wind in the flag at the cemetery, enough to move the stripes slightly.
Ten acres of sea gulls in the field that last year was alfalfa. They are a white blanket on empty soil. The field of corn where the hawk tree stood is being taken - perhaps twelve rows along the ouside edoge are gone, and I can see the top of a picker across the field.
The man on the radio gives the short forecast; he says "it's a pretty day." A pretty day like a pretty girl - what shall you talk her into?
