Wednesday, August 06, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
AUGUST 7, 2002
Not much to say this last day before we leave for the Boundary Waters. Blue sky, sun, a cool enough morning, dew heavy on the windshield of my new car. A little movement in the trees. Loveliness at its luscious best.
As I leave the north edge of Fairwater, I wonder: "What more can I want?" Really, there is nothing more one needs than what I have. But I'm given this, I see: a red-tail hawk at the bare top of a half dead pine tree in the yard at the Sina pig farm. Its breast is turned to the sun; from its high perch it can see everything: what it cannot see does not exist.
AUGUST 7, 2002
Not much to say this last day before we leave for the Boundary Waters. Blue sky, sun, a cool enough morning, dew heavy on the windshield of my new car. A little movement in the trees. Loveliness at its luscious best.
As I leave the north edge of Fairwater, I wonder: "What more can I want?" Really, there is nothing more one needs than what I have. But I'm given this, I see: a red-tail hawk at the bare top of a half dead pine tree in the yard at the Sina pig farm. Its breast is turned to the sun; from its high perch it can see everything: what it cannot see does not exist.
