Sunday, June 4, 2023
In bed by 10, up at 6:05, waking from a dream re walking to Bean's Lake, stopping at Tom & Caela's house with Tom still living though past his death. Sunny 59℉, expected high of 72℉, NE wind at 8 mph, 1 to 8 mph during the day, and gusts up to 14 mph, no rain expected until maybe next Saturday. The sun rose at 5:13 & will set at 8:27, 15+13.
Starting the day seeing and hearing. I sat on the patio again this morning, sipping a cup of coffee and looking on the luxuriant sea of green all around (trees, shrubs, bushes, leaves, plants, flowers), listening to the occasional deep resonating of the wind chimes, and hearing the neighboring birds singing, calling, marking their proprietary nesting spaces. The cardinals, doves, and crows I can identify by ear, and Merlin tells me it is hearing what my old ears can't: robins, house finches, goldfinches, and a blue jay. The squirrel-proof birdfeeder I hung from the patio tree the other day shows no sign of having been plundered by squirrels, birds, or white-tail deer. Has it not been discovered yet or is my placement inopportune?
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minn. by James Wright
Over my head I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on,
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
Leisure by W. H. Davies
What is this life, if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Depression in Winter by Jane Kenyon
There comes a little space between the south side of a boulder
And the snow that fills the woods around it.
Sun heats the stone, reveals
A crescent of bare ground: brown ferns,
And tufts of needles like red hair,
Acorns, a patch of moss, bright green . . .
I sank with every step up to my knees,
Throwing myself forward with a violence
Of effort, greedy for unhappiness --
Until by accident I found the stone
With its secret porch of heat and light,
Where something small could luxuriate, then
Turned back down my path, chastened and calm.
Dystopia; the morning news. JSOnline: "A 1-year-old child was fatally shot on the city's north side Saturday night, Milwaukee police said. According to police, the girl was shot in a vehicle by a known suspect during an argument between adults. The incident took place around 8:11 p.m. in the 1900 block of West Atkinson Avenue, near the Milwaukee Public Library Atkinson Branch. The child was transported to Children's Hospital, where she died from her injuries. Anyone with additional information regarding this incident is asked to contact Milwaukee Police at (414) 935-7360, or to remain anonymous, contact Crime Stoppers at (414) 224-Tips or by using the P3 Tips app."
Is a one-year-old an infant or a toddler, or a bit of each? Is her shooting death an unspeakable tragedy or just a familiar day in the city? Does it matter whether she 'comes from money' or is poor? Does it matter whether she is Black or Brown or White? What would it take to make her killing make us gasp or lose a breath, grieve, or silently weep on reading or hearing the news? What does it say about our society, our culture, our community, and ourselves that learning of another innocent Black child shot to death in the inner city is just another day at the office, barely worth a mention without even giving her name on an inside page of the local fish wrap? What does it say about the news media and more significantly what does it say about the readers/listeners/watchers of that media? Is it just virtue-signaling on my part to ask such questions or is it a recognition that we are inured to the violent deaths of Blacks, men and women, lawbreakers and innocents, grown-ups and kids, victims of police violence or domestic violence or gang violence, whatever, whoever, wherever, however. 'Another one bites the dust.' 10th homicide of a minor in Milwaukee so far this year.
Another one bites the dust / Another one bites the dust / Another one gone and another one gone / Another one bites the dust, yeah / There are plenty of ways you can hurt a man / And bring him to the ground / You can beat him you can cheat him you can treat him bad / And leave him when he's down, yeah / But I'm ready yes I'm ready for you / I'm standing on my own two feet / Out of the doorway the bullets rip / Repeating the sound of the beat, oh yeah. [Queen, 1980]
Woman, why are you weeping?
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