The Fourth of July was beautiful in Seattle. "Not a cloud in the sky," save for a few stray puffs to the west over the distant, still-snowy Olympic Mountains. All else was cornflower blue, blue-green, and green. At times, things do fall into place. For a moment.
We live in a constellation
Of patches and of pitches,
Not in a single world,
In things said well in music,
On the piano, and in speech,
As in a page of poetry --
Thinkers without final thoughts
In an always incipient cosmos,
The way, when we climb a mountain,
Vermont throws itself together.
Wallace Stevens, "Late Poems (1950-55)," Collected Poetry and Prose (Library of America 1997).