Ducks at Sunset

 

Tonight, another pink early sunset. The sun goes down really early in December. I love sunset, but it makes me realize that another day (in which I didn't accomplish anything significant) is winding down. I went out to photograph the late light through the trees, and here came the ducks, thinking there might be a late feeding. Not, alas.

We got J a nice Christmas present today, so we are getting there, slowly. I guess I should be thankful for such a good-sized family, but this holiday thing feels like a demand from the universe that I am not ready for. S is filling the humidifier now; it gurgles. Then he will do his nightly PT exercises.

This is a lucky time to be living. I am partway into one of my books about daily life long ago. It is called A World Lit Only by Fire; the Medieval Mind and the Renaissance, portrait of an age, by William Manchester. It is a good book to read if you are thinking your life is too hard. There are used copies available and the price for the Kindle version is very reasonable, although I don't know about the illustrations. Sometimes they just don't put illustrations on the Kindle version, even if they were in the printed book; This makes me very cross! 

Tonight's poem is again by Hilda Morley, from To Hold in My Hand, page 197.
See previous posts for more information about this wonderful book!

Striking a Match

A match flaring on a rough surface

because in extremity we need them 

both: the light, the heat---& cannot

survive without them,

                                   so poetry

is written in New York

                                     in that clangor

of a million incongruities, points of'

juxtaposition,       tension of

silence,         so dense we cannot breathe in it

except at moments
                             if the wind catches us,
whirls us along the sidewalk, clutching
at walls in blasts from the river, 
if for a moment we lean back in a chair
in a restaurant looking out at
the street,       or stand with a friend, or
with friends smiling at a street-corner
watching the moon droop over us,       irresolute,
or watch from the window
                                          a moment after
we see the first bird that day
speeding westward
                              & know it has
left everything behind it

                                                NEW YORK, 1981

Still my ampersand, so elegant! And the first bird of the day in New York City! And the
perfect pausing shown by the arrangement on the page. Good night for this night.