In recent days:
-- Walking into the bathroom on one of the only recent overcast-free nights to find a long slanted rectangle of moonlight on the wall, shining softly. Stepping to the window revealed the moon itself, three-quarters full, sailing low in the southeastern sky, fireflies providing gliding dots of counterpoint, flashing in the air above the grass.
-- Standing shin-deep in the back of a pick-up truck on one of the rare recent afternoons of full-out sunshine, shoveling composted horse manure out onto the grass in front of my garage. Ending up with a sizeable heap -- a sizeable, aromatic heap. Destined for flower beds, etc.
The woman who brought the horse poop had a one-year old inside the cab, napping. Napping, that is, until the manure in the back got low enough that rake and shovel began making loud contact with truck. Noise inside the cab was muffled by air condition (and engine idling due to a/c) -- opening the door unmuffled loud wailing from unhappy ex-napper. Closing it brought quiet. Open again: wailing. Closed again: quiet.
-- The air around the house has been filled with birdsong like you wouldn't believe from morning till evening, rain or shine. (For some reason, though, quieter today, the first day of mostly sunshine since the manure drop-off. At least in this corner of Vermont -- in other areas, thunderstorms drop rain, hail, cats/dogs, etc.)
-- Walking behind a 40ish man and woman along the main drag of a nearby town. His right shoe squeaked loudly, insistently, producing the kind of sound that some grade school geniuses can generate by squeezing their hands together, a high-pitched hybrid of squeak and squeal that sounds like a fart produced by a clenched bum. So loud, so distracting that I had to admire the woman for managing to carry on conversation in civilized fashion, without any visible sign of the urge to giggle or push the guy over.
The days slip by with disorienting velocity. Today is the solstice -- it was just the beginning of May. I look at the calendar, see how many days and weeks have passed since returning from Madrid, and can only shake my head in amazement.
España, te echo de menos
rws 6:29 PM [+]
Comments:
On your last paragraph, one might be moved to say
And so do the days of our lives run ever faster from and with us, and the sands of the hourglass stream till none remain.
[since we're being melancholic and all]
Post a Comment
And so do the days of our lives run ever faster from and with us, and the sands of the hourglass stream till none remain.
[since we're being melancholic and all]
