rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Getting There

A cooler evening quiets the cicadas, though it fails to silence them. Their buzzing becomes intermittent. The undisturbed moments between their outbursts are a delightful hint of the coming peace of autumn. Another indication of the waning of summer is that the feral kittens, who have lately taken to sleeping apart, are now heaped together again, napping on a rug near the house, which provides them with some protection from the chilly night breezes.

When colder weather arrives I suspect they will take shelter in the shed where they spent many nights last spring. They'll no longer be able to fit into the box they used then, though. They are already quite large, and this afternoon I briefly mistook the largest of them for his mother. She has returned after being missing for a couple of nights, and the kittens seem happy to see her even though she no longer nurses them. They now seem happy to see me, too, whenever I go out. The brave kitten now meows at me once in a while, and all three will rush to within a few feet of me when they see me filling their dish.

I think I'll have to close the windows before midnight tonight. There's definitely a touch of autumn in the air. I even heard the honks of geese flying overhead shortly before sunset, as they returned to the valley after a day probably spent at some mountain lake. It's only September, but I'm already feeling October's approach. I welcome it.



Sunday Verse

The Wild Swans at Coole


by William Butler Yeats


The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
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