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| Photo courtesy of BernadetteLongo |
It is still early morning. The mist is on
the marshes. The day is stark and stiff
as a linen shroud. But it will soften;
it will warm. At this hour, this still
early hour, I think I am the field, I am the barn, I am the trees; mine are the
flocks of birds, and this young hare who leaps, at the last moment when I step
almost on him. Mine is the heron that
stretches its vast wings lazily; and the cow that creaks as it pushes one foot
before another munching; and the wild, swooping swallow; and the faint red in
the sky, and the green when the red fades; the silence and the bell; the call
of the man fetching cart- horses from the fields--all are mine.
The Waves (69-70)
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