rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Eleven, Day Twenty-six

The very very very hot day is over, and the very hot night is here. More very very very hot days coming up, and more very hot nights. A couple of visits to the back yard for some fresh (though very very hot) air today left me somewhat nauseated each time. Mostly I've stayed in and let the air conditioner look after me, and have eaten very little. Peanut butter and the last of my saltines for dinner, and just now a small bowl of popcorn for a late snack. I actually feel stuffed, though I'm sure I'll find room for a bit of chocolate before I sleep.

One odd moment came one of the times I was in the back yard today. I was sitting in a chair wondering if I'd be able to muster the strength to get back indoors before heat stroke set in, when I heard an unfamiliar bird call. It was a fairly deep voice, calling in four parts, two short, one long, one short. As I listened it seemed that words were taking shape within the call. After several hearings, it seemed that the bird was saying in muffled tones "try to save me, try to save me." I fancied a human trapped in the bird's body, having only the bird's song with which to call for help. But what human, free at last to fly, would wish to escape the bird's body?

I'm going to post a poem I'm sure I've posted before— quite likely more than once— but it has been summoned to my mind by the sultry weather, and by my elegiac mood, to which it seems quite appropriate.



Sunday Verse



The Empty Hills


by Yvor Winters


The grandeur of deep afternoons,
The pomp of haze on marble hills,
Where every white-walled villa swoons
Through violence that heat fulfills,

Pass tirelessly and more alone
Than kings that time has laid aside.
Safe on their massive sea of stone
The empty tufted gardens ride.

Here is no music, where the air
Drives slowly through the airy leaves.
Meaning is aimless motion where
The sinking humming bird conceives.

No book nor picture has inlaid
This life with darkened gold, but here
Men passionless and dumb invade
A quiet that entrances fear.

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