Friday, July 18, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
JULY 19, 2002
Haze above, blue sky behind. Fans are pulling cool air into the house. A cool front moved in last night. For a bit, it looked as if it were promising rain but we got none, got nothing, nada. The sun is breaking through the haze off to the east, laying a cream-color on things.
Some days you turn the radio on, nothing but static. Some days you have nothing to say. There's no use running from silence, it's larger than you are. No use complaining about noise.
North of Fairwater, the acrid smell of the canning factory's waste water being sprayed again. It clears one's mind, forces a sharp focus. Its sharpness, in contrast to the haze. In contrast to the softness of the tassels in the fields of sweet corn, of the great storm of dust being raised by a farmner working his empty pea field.
All the swallows on the power line this morning face the east. Yesterday as I drove home from work all of them faced the west.
The day lilies north of Five Corners blaze like fire in the ditch. The field of peas north of Five Corners - yesterday they looked too burned to harvest - they have been taken. What remains there is vines, and the smell of silage.
JULY 19, 2002
Haze above, blue sky behind. Fans are pulling cool air into the house. A cool front moved in last night. For a bit, it looked as if it were promising rain but we got none, got nothing, nada. The sun is breaking through the haze off to the east, laying a cream-color on things.
Some days you turn the radio on, nothing but static. Some days you have nothing to say. There's no use running from silence, it's larger than you are. No use complaining about noise.
North of Fairwater, the acrid smell of the canning factory's waste water being sprayed again. It clears one's mind, forces a sharp focus. Its sharpness, in contrast to the haze. In contrast to the softness of the tassels in the fields of sweet corn, of the great storm of dust being raised by a farmner working his empty pea field.
All the swallows on the power line this morning face the east. Yesterday as I drove home from work all of them faced the west.
The day lilies north of Five Corners blaze like fire in the ditch. The field of peas north of Five Corners - yesterday they looked too burned to harvest - they have been taken. What remains there is vines, and the smell of silage.
