||[Jul. 17th, 2007|09:37 pm]
Early this morning I saw clouds that looked like seismograph tracks written across the sky. For afternoon the vapors confined themselves to the more conventional swooping and feathery shapes of standard cirrus clouds. Toward evening they decided to mass in the west, and managed to put on quite a nice display of stormy threat, though I'm sure the threat will prove to have been empty, at least in my immediate locality. I wouldn't be surprised to hear distant thunder rolling about the mountains tonight.|
All the crickets in my yard are apparently dead. I hear them chirping in neighboring yards, but mine is silent. This may be one of the consequences of not irrigating enough. At dusk I like to sit in the backyard and feel the mist of my neighbor's lawn sprinkler cool the air, and listen to their crickets. Drought tolerant gardens have their disadvantages.
Getting late. Shower.
Their Lonely Betters
As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.
A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.
Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.
Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.