I saw a shocking sight on the way to the stores today. The utility company, PG&E, has been sending out lots of crews to cut down trees that encroach on its power lines. The shopping center that has the K-mart in it has always had Ponderosa pine trees along the street bordering its parking lot. PG&E had truncated some of them them long ago, lopping off the tops so they didn't reach the wires, but others had only had branches trimmed off on the street side, so they still provided some shade to the parking lot. But now there are only long rows of bare stumps. It doesn't look like the same place. Although there are many diseased pines around town, these, despite the often careless trimming they had endured, were all quite healthy. I am most displeased.
Looking at the ten day forecast, there is still no rain is sight. While this means I won't have to be be raking any soggy leaves, it is starting to worry me a bit. Another dry year is something we don't need at all. Besides which all this mild weather is getting a bit boring. I'd appreciate a nice autumn storm, maybe even with a bit of hale. And I wouldn't mind hearing some frogs singing at night again. I know they'll be back in spring (unless we still haven't gotten any rain by then) but that's a long time to wait for frog music.
No English people murdering one another on television tonight. Costume drama instead. Death in costume drama is most often from disease. That's nowhere near as interesting as murder, even when the dead are English. I'll be glad when English murder returns to my Sunday nights. The weekend just doesn't feel over without it.
Street in Agrigentum
by Salvatore Quasimodo
There is still the wind that I remember
firing the manes of horses, racing,
slanting, across the plains,
the wind that stains and scours the sandstone,
and the heart of gloomy columns, telamons,
overthrown in the grass. Spirit of the ancients, grey
with rancour, return on the wind,
breathe in that feather-light moss
that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.
How alone in the space that’s still yours!
And greater, your pain, if you hear, once more,
the sound that moves, far off, towards the sea,
where Hesperus streaks the sky with morning:
the jew’s-harp vibrates
in the waggoner’s mouth
as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow,
in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.