What do we want?
We want a place we can make a living - first of all, survival. We want a place we are familiar with - a known terrain. And, with that, we want people we are familiar with, or at least people we feel comfortable getting to know. We don't ever want to be a stranger, an outsider, in a land that won't embrace us. We want something to call our own, this house, this yard. A farm, a mountain, a river. Where I can say "This is mine." Man is a territorial animal, isn't he? We want a climate that fits our soul. I think there are north country men who cannot go south; if they do, something within them dies. The fire dies that kept them warm through the coldest winter, an icy place in the heart thaws that had kept them cool in the deepest heat of August.
A sky this morning the color of a big bird's grey belly sitting on the nest. The air is damp, but not dripping. There is no moisture on the windshield.
I saw the two hawk's in their tree on my way home from work last evening. They are not there this morning.
Harvest of the field corn has begun. There are several fields along Highway E where rows along the edges have been taken.
In Ripon, a tall, thin girl stands in a dark window, looking out. Her white blouse hides the bony protuberances at the top of her shoulders. Her arms are crossed in front of her. She is alone and perhaps she aches with longing; she has that look, looking out. Are her eyes as blue as rain water? Are her cheeks kissed with the blush of surprise? Does she know she is lovely, how lovely?
Comments