rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Plummet

August's final day has been its best. No more stagnant, torrid air, but fresh breezes and balmy sunlight and the whir of hovering hummingbirds. Two squirrels frolicked, scrabbling on the bark of a pine. A plane droned overhead, on its way to no fire. Crows cawed as they glided, glossy black against vivid blue sky, and the acorn woodpeckers chuckled. It's taken so long for summer to find perfection this year, but a dusk that brought a genuine chill was worth the wait. Now the trees rustle and hum, and a few oak leaves flutter down, anticipating autumn. Though the heat may return tomorrow, I will be refreshed, and find even a sultry day no longer unendurable, given that fewer such can remain to the waning season. I might even stand in the sunlight again, as I did this afternoon, soaking it up. All this summer's excess may not be forgotten, but their offence has been diminished. Goodbye, August. Your apology is accepted.


Sunday Verse

In Summer Time


by Paul Laurence Dunbar


When summer time has come, and all
The world is in the magic thrall
Of perfumed airs that lull each sense
To fits of drowsy indolence;
When skies are deepest blue above,
And flow'rs aflush, then most I love
To start, while early dews are damp,
And wend my way in woodland tramp
Where forests rustle, tree on tree,
And sing their silent songs to me;
Where pathways meet and pathways part,
To walk with Nature heart by heart,
Till wearied out at last I lie
Where some sweet stream steals singing by
A mossy bank; where violets vie
In color with the summer sky,
Or take my rod and line and hook,
And wander to some darkling brook,
Where all day long the willows dream,
And idly droop to kiss the stream,
And there to loll from morn till night—
Unheeding nibble, run, or bite
Just for the joy of being there
And drinking in the summer air,
The summer sounds, and summer sights,
That set a restless mind to rights
When grief and pain and raging doubt
Of men and creeds have worn it out;
The birds' song and the water's drone,
The humming bees' low monotone,
The murmur of the passing breeze,
And all the sounds akin to these,
That make a man in summer time
Feel only fit for rest and rhyme.
Joy springs all radiant in my breast;
Though pauper poor, than king more blest,
The tide beats in my soul so strong
That happiness breaks forth in song,
And rings aloud the welkin blue
With all the songs I ever knew.
O time of rapture! time of song!
How swiftly glide thy days along
Adown the current of the years,
Above the rocks of grief and tears!
'Tis wealth enough of joy for me
In summer time to simply be.

plummet
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