rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Sooner than expected the clouds arrive and the day is almost autumnal. The trumpet vine's few remaining flowers get no visits from hummingbirds, and the dry grass, shaded, smells less arid than when the full sun baked it yesterday. The air has the damp scent of a coming storm, and nightfall brings a few sprinkles of rain. Though they are not enough to darken the pavement, their presence pleases me. Although summer will reassert itself once this overcast passes, the real autumn will come eventually, and real rain with it. I will be patient.

Sunday Verse

Hyla Brook

by Robert Frost

By June our brook's run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh bells in a ghost of snow)—
Or flourished and come up in jewelweed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent,
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.

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