A gorgeous day for a walk; you can see just a little purple mountain majesty on the right horizon.
The small dog, only two years old capers and tugs at the leash. The fourteen year old out-of-shape dachshund starts out slowly and needs dragging reminders for about the first forty percent of the walk. Then she limbers up and trots right along. We went three miles today: to the big park, but we didn't cross the street to play there this time. It is nice weather for walking at this time of year.
Almost and Always
Almost they were, the amethyst mountains
and the clear, faint bellowing of horns
in far forests over the twilight border,
and faded into daylight and the noise of traffic.
Always the half-guessed miraculous line
trembled on the edge of being
in this language, and was almost, and faded
into the expectable, ordinary poem.
Ursula K. Le Guin
Finding My Elegy; new and selected poems,
1960--2010, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012, page 111.
I got this book of poems after reading her recent profile in
The New Yorker. They are delighting me.