Desert Wind

There is a peculiarity of the local climate to which I've never quite become accustomed. This time of year, the air flows down the piedmont of the Sierra all night long, in a steady breeze that makes the pines whisper. The evenings are usually very cool, but, as the night passes, the air gradually grows warmer until, in the hours before dawn, it often will be rather balmy. I think that the high pressure system over the inland deserts must gradually shift seaward, compressing the air as it goes. I still find it strange to go outdoors about this time of day and find it warmer than it was before midnight.

Poem Needs Posting

THE WHITE MOON

by Paul Verlaine


The white moon
Gleams in the wood;
From every branch
There comes a voice
Beneath the bower . . .

O my love.

The pond reflects,
Shimmering mirror,
The silhouette
Of the dim willow
Where the wind laments . . .

Let us dream, it is the hour.

Vast and tender
An appeasement
Seems to lower
From the firmament
Star-bedecked . . .

Exquisite hour.



***