By Ursula K. Le Guin
Somewhere I read
that when they finally staggered off the mountain
into some strange town, past drunk,
hoarse, half naked, blear-eyed,
blood dried under broken nails
and across young thighs,
but still jeering and joking, still trying
to dance, lurching and yelling, but falling
dead asleep by the market stalls,
sprawled helpless, flat out, then
would come and stand nightlong in the agora
as ewes and cows in the night fields,
guarding, watching them
as their mothers
watched over them.
And no man
that fierce decorum.
Wednesday was chilly but sunny, and the light makes it so much easier for me to get things done, though none of what I got done is worth reporting, like trying to figure out which cloud services I should use for which of my files. Paul worked from home, so we got to have lunch together. Adam went to an indoor track meet but came home early since he couldn't run in it.
We had dinner plans with Angela and Kevin and we took Adam with us to Founding Farmers, where I had phenomenal butternut squash ravioli and the rest of my family ate terrific veggie food. Then we came home and watched Jack the Giant Slayer on cable; Hoult, McGregor, Tomlinson, et al were all fine (Tucci wants to be Alan Rickman and can't quite pull it off) but the screenplay has some hopeless parts. Winter ducks at Great Falls: