Thursday, July 10, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
JULY 11, 2002
It was a cooler day yesterday. Blue sky and a cool breeze this morning. Sunlight laid out like a map. Let's go, let's go.
In front of our building at work these past few days some barn swallows have been diving and swooping and cursing, trying to protect a nest hidden somewhere I can't see. You merely have to cross in front of the building to be attacked. They are serious about their business. This is sense of place with a passion, a great passion, a great angry fuse of it. Do we lose some of our connection to place as we evolve? The closer we've gotten to "idea," the farther we're removed from the physical world we inhabit?
The pond is still clotted with algae. Something skims across the green surface. Sunlight lies down on the green blanket. The world keeps spinning towards madness.
It's not all blue sky, I see now, out here in the country. There are clouds and crows; and red-wing blackbirds, too, their songs as bright as their wing patches.
South of Five Corners, another field of peas is gone. The stink of vines remains.
JULY 11, 2002
It was a cooler day yesterday. Blue sky and a cool breeze this morning. Sunlight laid out like a map. Let's go, let's go.
In front of our building at work these past few days some barn swallows have been diving and swooping and cursing, trying to protect a nest hidden somewhere I can't see. You merely have to cross in front of the building to be attacked. They are serious about their business. This is sense of place with a passion, a great passion, a great angry fuse of it. Do we lose some of our connection to place as we evolve? The closer we've gotten to "idea," the farther we're removed from the physical world we inhabit?
The pond is still clotted with algae. Something skims across the green surface. Sunlight lies down on the green blanket. The world keeps spinning towards madness.
It's not all blue sky, I see now, out here in the country. There are clouds and crows; and red-wing blackbirds, too, their songs as bright as their wing patches.
South of Five Corners, another field of peas is gone. The stink of vines remains.
