Unmunched

[rejectomorph]

We have a profusion of roses this year. The long damp of spring, followed by the recent warm days, has encouraged their growth. Yet the thing I think most responsible for the colorful display which has emerged along the street is the absence of deer. They have not visited the block in at least two weeks, and thus the flowers remain uneaten. When they do at last return in search of a snack, what at a feast awaits them! Until then, those of us who do not browse on bushes have an uncommon visual feast.



Sunday Verse

On the Adequacy of Landscape

by Wallace Stevens


The little owl flew through the night,
As if the people in the air
Were frightened and he frightened them,
By being there,

The people that turned off and came
To avoid the bright, discursive wings,
To avoid the hap-hallow hallow-ho
Of central things,

Nor in their empty hearts to feel
The blood-red redness of the sun,
To shrink to an insensible,
Small oblivion,

Beyond the keenest diamond day
Of people sensible to pain,
When cocks wake, clawing at their beds
To be again,

And who, for that, turn toward the cocks
And toward the start of day and trees
And light behind the body of night
And sun, as if these

Were what they are, the sharpest sun:
The sharpest self, the sensible range,
The extent of what they are, the strength
That they exchange,

So that he that suffers most desires
The red bird most and the strongest sky--
Not the people in the air that hear
The little owl fly.