Wednesday, August 27, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
AUGUST 28, 2002
The sun is trying to burn through a fog that's been laid on us. It has been a foggy morning all along, right down into every dip and hollow. It's a September morning. It's a Canadian fishing camp morning.
People keep asking me, so perhaps I should figure it out - how many days til retirement. It's 25 working days, as if it matters; it's 36 days altogether.
Ah, morning dove, the sound of wings at the end of the driveway. Ah, love lifted in the heavy morning.
There's dew on everything. It could not be otherwise on such a morning.
Visibility in the country is not half a mile, not even a quarter mile in some places. If I could see anything, perhaps I'd report it - a smudge of one hundred swallows sitting on a power line, for instance. In fog like this, a fellow ought to watch his business instead of the side show. And so I do, so I shall.
AUGUST 28, 2002
The sun is trying to burn through a fog that's been laid on us. It has been a foggy morning all along, right down into every dip and hollow. It's a September morning. It's a Canadian fishing camp morning.
People keep asking me, so perhaps I should figure it out - how many days til retirement. It's 25 working days, as if it matters; it's 36 days altogether.
Ah, morning dove, the sound of wings at the end of the driveway. Ah, love lifted in the heavy morning.
There's dew on everything. It could not be otherwise on such a morning.
Visibility in the country is not half a mile, not even a quarter mile in some places. If I could see anything, perhaps I'd report it - a smudge of one hundred swallows sitting on a power line, for instance. In fog like this, a fellow ought to watch his business instead of the side show. And so I do, so I shall.
