#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

"It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops, as they sway.

They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,

Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:

A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world

And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.

Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying."

- Wallace Stevens, The Region November

The news is surreal. This is a reality to wake into, this November day. The trees, bare of leaves, sway. I keep my practice: walk to the river, look at the weather. See what the river is doing today. Rippling, reflecting. A lone duck, an easy paddling. Charlie takes a drink. Suzi takes a swim for her joints, for the chill, for pleasure and habit and relief. I walk and keep my practice, I notice leaves in the brook, and color, red. I let the earth attract me. I find a feather in the grass, it’s evidence of a being in flight. The bigger picture. Perspective. I keep my practice, indoors. Writing, revising. I tweak some lines of my Ardeche poem and send it off to my workshop for tomorrow. Still, the news treads on and on into a loss, into the beyond of what is true. If someone shows integrity in their official role, this is news. It’s not news, anymore, if someone doesn’t. Well, it’s news. But it’s not news. There are those who have power and integrity. And there are those who have power. I appreciate the evidence of birds in flight, the evidence of summer: it was here, and the green grass grew.