I loved the sweep
of tawny landscape in Iowa. I love the swoop and holler of Wisconsin. We're home, and we're glad to be home. You cannot take vacation from your heart.
It is a heavy grey day. The darkness clings to everything like a liquid sheen. Everything is approximate. I can only guess at the truth.
A heavy dew, an orange carpet of leaves, the fog in all directions. A jet plane overhead. Is that a reassuring sound? If it is, it's sad that we've come to this.
My vision was damaged by an infection in my left eye during our Iowa trip. The vision improves slowly, I can see better than I could. I could see better without this fog. Visibility is an eighth of a mile. I make a slow drive. I am a slow slide into second base when the catcher has dropped the ball. I am a lucky fellow. Will the sun burn through?
The sun does burn through. It shines on a blackness of crow in a poplar just south of Ripon. The world hoots a kind of morning joy.
My shoulders have gone south for the winter, apparently. I feel the pain of their absence. Now I make do with stone grinding on stone.
Comments