Just hangin' out

Whatever weather thing gave us yesterday morning's glittering frost, was a one-day wonder. I had naturally thought of other photo strategies should it recur. But it is still very cold and I fed ducks again today. We went to the hearing aid office today and ordered some. Because it was Friday, I guess, the huge parking lot was only about 1/3 full. And there were about 20 Canada Geese wandering about. There wasn't anything to eat, that I could see, but there they were--moving from the street toward the buildings. When we came out, we had to manouver among many fresh green fat-worm-like droppings. This made me wonder, again, if feeding ducks was SUCH a good idea! Today was Mail Day, when a whole weeks worth of magazines, junque mail and everything, is forwarded in a box. There is a new New Yorker, and a FANTASTIC article ( I had to tear myself away to get this in before midnight) by John McPhee. It's about how he writes and thinks up the structures for his non-fiction. And it describes an arcane piece of old software that someone customized for him. But, even without the software, one could make those little maps--each one varies with the subject--even for a poem. This New Yorker is the January 14, 2013 issue. Read it soon!
I still haven't found out much more about Icelandic sagas, except they seem to be heavy on genealogy. I won't find out until I get back to it what use Thornton was able to make of the tone for his Alcestiad.
I do know that I have more respect for his creative process than I did in High School, when I thought of him as someone who had written a very short book about people who died when a bridge collapsed in Peru. And a slight play about life in a small town which wasn't that interesting to read, and I've never had a chance to see it performed.

Here's another poem from Louis Simpson, also from his Selected Poems, p108.

Frogs

The storm broke, and it rained,
And water rose in the pool,
And frogs hopped into the gutter,

With their skins of yellow and green,
And just their eyes shining above the surface,
Of the warm solution of slime.

At night, when fireflies trace
Light-lines between the trees and flowers
Exhaling perfume,

The frogs speak to each other
In rhythm. The sound is monstrous,
But their voices are filled with satisfaction.

In the city I pine for the country;
In the country I long for conversation--
Our happy croaking.

                                                    Goodnight!