(no subject)

Saturated. Drenched. Sodden. I'm drowning in the same adjectives, day after day. The wet year will relentlessly leach every other thought from my mind. The morning birds chirp and fly, then alight and flick the water from their wings, making small rains within the rain. Chicks born this year will have gills. Their chicks will vanish into rivers and lakes. Landbound, I will tread knee-high grass. Everything not washed away will be engulfed in vegetation. I might as well grow roots.


Digging way back, because it just seems appropriate:

Sunday Verse

The Mower's Song

by Andrew Marvell


My Mind was once the true survey
Of all these Medows fresh and gay;
And in the greenness of the Grass
Did see its Hopes as in a Glass;
When Juliana came, and she
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But these, while I with Sorrow pine,
Grew more luxuriant still and fine;
That not one Blade of Grass you spy'd,
But had a Flower on either side;
When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

Unthankful Meadows, could you so
A fellowship so true forego,
And in your gawdy May-games meet,
While I lay trodden under feet?
When Juliana came , and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But what you in Compassion ought,
Shall now by my Revenge be wrought:
And Flow'rs, and Grass, and I and all,
Will in one common Ruine fall.
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

And thus, ye Meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the Heraldry become
With which I shall adorn my Tomb;
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

Later and Later

There's still light in the sky at almost eight o'clock. Birds fill the gray evening with songs. I hear acorn woodpeckers, and what I think must be some sort of thrush which has a very loud voice, among others. The rain finally stopped late this afternoon, the clouds parting briefly to allow a bit of sunshine make the water beads sparkle. If the moon appears, it will be waning, so I won't see it until late. It won't clear the trees until after midnight. This is going to be a cold night. Not many of those left in the year, I think. I'll store the memory of it to recall when the summer heat oppresses me.

I'm going to try to get to more of the boxes in the garage tonight. Most of the contents being paper, I'm finding a lot of it bent and damp. A garage is no place to store books. Everything I dig out smells a bit musty, too. So far no black widows have leaped out at me, though. I'm sure I'll find some eventually. When I do, I should probably thank them for eating the bugs that would have eaten the books.

My untrimmed hair is beginning to irritate the hell out of me. It's way too much trouble to arrange a trip to the barber. I'm thinking about buying one of those razors that will let me cut it myself, and just buzz it into oblivion every couple of weeks. I'd look like crap, but at least there'd be nothing tickling my ears hour after hour.

Boxes now.