Nature took its foot off my face today. Sun's shining. There are swans cruising back and forth in the flooded bog behind my house. We can see them from the kitchen window. They did not deign to let me photograph them. Like all truly magnificent things, they must pretend to be modest. I will not trouble them.
It's interesting standing for a long moment watching the inexorable trickle of yesterday's rain making its way, as it must, to the sea. A poet should live here. It's wasted on me. I just figure the shake in the grain of a tree drooped over like that makes it unsuitable for anything but firewood, and go back in and knock boards together.