Thursday, September 04, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
SEPTEMBER 5, 2002
Blue sky, a thick dew on things, a morning silence as if the birds have their bags packed and are ready to go. The beauty of fullness is at the empty husk of hunker-down. Even in mid-summer winter is a memory, a promise, and no magic potion will push it off forever.
Patch of sunlight on the floor of the garage, like a page torn out of a book, left as litter. A surprise of knowledge, the surprise of ignorance.
A small push of wind in the flag at the cemetery. The road heads north, I go to work for pay. It's for less than a month that I shall be doing so in such a fashion as this. And then retirement from gainful employment, yes.
Walnuts on Watson Street in Ripon, pretending to be tennis balls. They don't fool me twice.
SEPTEMBER 5, 2002
Blue sky, a thick dew on things, a morning silence as if the birds have their bags packed and are ready to go. The beauty of fullness is at the empty husk of hunker-down. Even in mid-summer winter is a memory, a promise, and no magic potion will push it off forever.
Patch of sunlight on the floor of the garage, like a page torn out of a book, left as litter. A surprise of knowledge, the surprise of ignorance.
A small push of wind in the flag at the cemetery. The road heads north, I go to work for pay. It's for less than a month that I shall be doing so in such a fashion as this. And then retirement from gainful employment, yes.
Walnuts on Watson Street in Ripon, pretending to be tennis balls. They don't fool me twice.
