Monday, September 21, 2020

The three of us spent yesterday morning out walking a section of the Eastern Trail that cuts along the salt marshes in Scarborough. Though migration has begun, plenty of birds were still around: we saw great white egrets, snowy egrets, great blue herons, and something that might have been a plover or a killdeer--it was hard to see its identifying markings. I was hoping for seals, but the tide was too low for them to be swimming in from the bay.

It's cold in the house this morning, but I can't bring myself to turn on the furnace yet. The days are sunny, rainless. Beneath the Norway maples the dry earth is cracked; the thin grass is burnt and brown. I carry pails of water to my new tree and shrubs. The drought goes on and on.

Today: editing, editing. I have a poetry group meeting tonight. I should read some Byron, I should wash some floors.

The loneliness is seeping in, through the cracks and planks. 


nancy said...

ee cummings had it right.
as much as I love, love, love fall, there is always a note of melancholy in the falling of the leaves.

Dawn Potter said...

That's so true. It's an elegiac season.