Soon after I emerged from the green light of the trees, the word "susurration" floated up. I have no idea why. But, yes, the grey and breathless afternoon was indeed in need of a susurration.
I continued to walk. A few minutes later, as I neared home, a brief breeze stirred the leaves of a pear tree next to the sidewalk. Drops of water from an earlier rain shower pattered from the leaves onto my shoulders. A susurration.
Repose is in simplicities.
Perhaps the mind has leaves like trees
Involving the luxurious sun
And tossed by wind's intricacies,
And finds repose is more than grief
When failing light and falling leaf
Denote that winter has begun.
James Reeves, The Imprisoned Sea (Poetry London 1949).
Charles Kerr (1858-1907), "Carradale"
All is well with the World. Meanwhile, in this odd and wonderful country of mine, land that I love, there are those who are already in the thrall of next year's presidential election. Every four years we witness a battle to the death between Absolute Good and Absolute Evil, with the Fate of the Republic at stake. I have now lived through sixteen of these contests for the Soul and the Destiny of the nation. I continue to wait for the sky to fall.
As I write this, the robins warble and chatter in the garden outside my window. The sun will set before they stop for the day. Tomorrow morning, they will begin again well before it rises.
Through the pale green forest of tall bracken-stalks,
Whose interwoven fronds, a jade-green sky,
Above me glimmer, infinitely high,
Towards my giant hand a beetle walks
In glistening emerald mail; and as I lie
Watching his progress through huge grassy blades
And over pebble boulders, my own world fades
And shrinks to the vision of a beetle's eye.
Within that forest world of twilight green
Ambushed with unknown perils, one endless day
I travel down the beetle-trail between
Huge glossy boles through green infinity . . .
Till flashes a glimpse of blue sea through the bracken asway,
And my world is again a tumult of windy sea.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Neighbours (Macmillan 1920).
William Lamond (1857-1924), "A Coastal Village"