Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Stiff Linen Day: January 12, 201O

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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