In Another Country, and besides . . .

I got out of the car on the way home tonight from the excellent Camera Club of Eagle Meeting, and two quail ran across a lawn right in front of my feet. My camera wasn't turned on, or even in my hand yet, so my only sunset bird picture of this evening is right here before you now! Look on the middle wire nearer to the large tree. And then I crossed the road and got under the wires.

                                         And took this portrait of a toplit hay bale.

And this Still Life with Gutter Reflections, which I think I will try in black and white.

This field is the nearest open space to me and I love to watch what happens here. Now I am safely home and looking at The Gettysburg Review, Winter 2013. It contains a portfolio of six translated poems by a Uruguyan poet new to me,  Circe Maya, translated by Jesse Lee Kercheval. And that IS another country. Name me a Uruguayan poet. Be quick!

Invitation

I would like you
to be able to hear my voice,
be able to hear yours.

Yes, yes, I am talking to you,
silent gaze
that runs over these lines.

You disapprove, perhaps, of this impossible
desire to escape paper and ink.
What would we say to each other?

I don't know, but it has to be better
than always talking to myself,
turning phrases, sounds,
(placing and removing parentheses and
putting them in again)

If your voice interrupts
and breaks this very
line---Come in!
I was waiting for you. This way.
Let's go into the garden. There are fruit trees.
You will see. Come.

**Circe Maya

The Gettysburg Review, Winter, 2013, page 620.