rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

In a Mood

All afternoon the sky, blue again at last, sported small white clouds drifting north. The leaves were stirred by southern breezes which moderated the heat. The place seemed about as normal as it's ever likely to seem— but then I haven't been down to look across the canyon and see the charred mountainsides on the opposite side of the river. And the clouds gave me pause, as at times it looked as though they might thicken and grow into another thunderstorm of the sort which started all the fires. It will be one month tomorrow since it passed through. Since then I've had enough excitement to last all summer.

On the other hand, a bit of excitement might be good if it involved going to the beach. That's not going to happen, of course, but it would be nice to be out of the mountains and the dry, hot air for a while. Two of the thirty-eight fires in the local lightning complex are still burning, but are now 90% contained. Last night the smell of smoke was slight and intermittent. Maybe we'll be lucky again tonight, though the air has lately grown still and the breeze will probably swing around to the north in a while. There's something melancholy about the hazy golden sunset now providing a bright backdrop to the trees across the street. I think I'll go out and listen to the evening chatter of the woodpeckers, and maybe hear the crickets begin chirping. It might lighten my mood.

Sunday Verse


by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Searching my heart for its true sorrow, 
 This is the thing I find to be: 
That I am weary of words and people, 
 Sick of the city, wanting the sea; 
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness 
 Of the strong wind and shattered spray, 
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound 
 Of the big surf that breaks all day. 

Always before about my dooryard, 
 Marking the reach of the winter sea, 
Rooted in sand and dragging driftwood, 
 Straggled the purple wild sweet pea. 
Always I climbed the wave at morning, 
 Shook the sand from my shoes at night, 
That now am caught beneath big buildings, 
 Stricken with noise, confused with light. 

If I could hear the green piles groaning. 
 Under the windy, wooden piers, 
See once again the bobbing barrels, 
 And the black sticks that fence the weirs; 
If I could see the weedy mussels 
 Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, 
Hear once again the hungry crying 
 Overhead, of the wheeling gulls; 

Feel once again the shanty straining 
 Under the turning of the tide, 
Fear once again the rising freshet, 
 Dread the bell in the fog outside, 
I should be happy!—that was happy 
 All day long on the coast of Maine. 
I have a need to hold and handle 
 Shells and anchors and ships again. 

I should be happy, that am happy. 
 Never at all since I came here. 
I am too long away from water; 
 I have a need of water near.

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