By Robert Penn Warren
From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through
Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the peak’s black angularity of shadow, riding
The last tumultuous avalanche of
Light above pines and the guttural gorge,
The hawk comes.
His wing
Scythes down another day, his motion
Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear
The crashless fall of stalks of Time.
The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error.
Look! Look! he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.
Long now,
The last thrush is still, the last bat
Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics. His wisdom
Is ancient, too, and immense. The star
Is steady, like Plato, over the mountain.
If there were no wind we might, we think, hear
The earth grind on its axis, or history
Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.
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We all drove to Thurmont on Saturday to meet Paul's parents, his brother David, David's wife Maria, and three of their kids at Simply Asia, where we had a really nice lunch and I caught up on lots with my nephews. We walked up the street to Dunkin' Donuts for dessert before heading in separate directions.
We've had a quiet evening here watching college football (ugggh Alabama) around Outlaw King, which Daniel and Adam had not seen. And we played Sentinels of the Multiverse, where Baron Blade killed our entire family of superheroes despite our successful destruction of his moon laser! A few photos:
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