Friday, May 8, 2020
In spring rain, in ragged Vs, geese circle the distant cornfield then settle. Night comes to this, day comes to this. I write through the morning, now and then studying the work of those who are dead, now and then studying the work that those who are dead studied while they wrote through the morning. In the hemlocks, blue jays, and on the stone wall that still stands between the near neighbor and the next-nearest, a cardinal. Let the song be sung, the prayer prayed. I remember as a child in the early 70s passing military convoys on the turnpike east and flashing them peace signs which to a one they returned, a memory I go back to often when I despair for the hearts of men. Pockets of gray slush in the driveway slide towards the barn to melt later in the day. Love came and here we are. Love came, here we go.
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