September Days

I know the feeling.

The days of this September week have acted on me as they may have acted on Henry in 1855. His journal covers the month’s first 12 days in under a page, ending with two haiku-like entries (I have reshaped them to suggest the form, and yes, the syllable-count stricture is relaxed):

Sept. 11 loudly the
cricket mole creaks by mid-afternoon
muskrat houses begun

Sept. 12 a few
clams freshly eaten some
grapes ripe.

Perhaps the slanting light and the etched clarity of each branch and leaf kept Henry from more usual, detailed writing; perhaps he felt summoned outside, even as the year began to contract. Surely, it’s felt that way for me. Summer’s expansive and eternal mornings have been replaced by sharp, cool air and the sense that something stirs to my north. Every minute outside seems precious and won; the clear air has said, Look and see.

And I have been rewarded:

Bluest sky tall spruce
a single perch for survey
two bald eagles vie

Pebbles crunch underfoot
laughter peals from the white birch
pileated woodpecker

Sea to horizon
ripples shot with sun flight
all day to paddle

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Filed under General, Henry David Thoreau, Nature, The Roost

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