Listen to the frog chorus. Watch the red wing fan his tail and tilt sideways when he sings while the grackle stretches straight forward and lifts both wings and tail. The tree swallows swirl like mini fighter pilots and the buffle head ducks dip and disappear slick as submarines. Above the dirt road the first Mourning cloaks emerge to float softly in the warm April sun. But If You So Much As Dare To Speak…
The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You’re one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you’re two months back in the middle of March.
Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time, 1926 re-blogged from Hanna’s walk
(There in Denmark the cherry trees are already out. It will be awhile before that happens here. Next week we could get a snowstorm. It’s happened before.)
But today was so warm i sketched outside at the Hurley building in short sleeves.
( see blog post https://litchfieldhillspleinairsketchersandpainters.wordpress.com)
This morning i also sketched and yesterday after church as well. I think that that painting is still in the car so here are a few photos from my Sunday walk. Can you guess where they were taken? Tomorrow JL and i will go up Shady Brook. Even with the drought our corner of the world is full of running water and bird song.
blueberries in bud.
This one begs to be painted.
A soft spot to sit? And i did and sketched the boardwalk and beaver dam beyond. -A nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
i have now painted the ocean picture “Equilibrium” 6 times and i still am not getting it right. so i shall post this little Requiem to a goldfish-he died today and finish with a poem by Rumi which describes me rather accurately. I’ll squirrel my own writing out of the way. Some day i may toss it out to sea in a glass bottle.
Here is a picture of the little fellow:
If you do not know me, ask the dark night
She is the witness of my lonely tears and laments
She is the keeper of my secrets.
I have become patient as a mountain, humble like dust.
My sorrows like a fence of thorns surround my garden
but once you go beyond them you will praise
its flowing springs and fragrant roses.
Praise the beloved who blessed the garden with new life.
A peaceful weaver cannot appreciate the art of war
the mind cannot feel the sweetness of the lover’s pain