By Maxwell Bodenheim
Who can make a delicate adventure
Of walking on the ground?
Who can make grass-blades
Arcades for pertly careless straying?
You alone, who skim against these leaves,
Turning all desire into light whips
Moulded by your deep blue wing-tips,
You who shrill your unconcern
Into the sternly antique sky.
You to whom all things
Hold an equal kiss of touch.
Mincing, wanton blue-bird,
Grimace at the hoofs of passing men.
You alone can lose yourself
Within a sky, and rob it of its blue!
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I had a bunch of chores to do on Monday, all of which took longer than I expected so none of them got done in a satisfactory way except getting my glasses adjusted. I did manage to get bagels for lunch, and the laundry is 2/3 done, though by the time we managed to take a walk, the rain had returned -- which was fine, because so had the eagles, high above the park.
Older son and I had a long conversation about building a desktop computer. We had pasta for dinner, watched some of the Chargers blowout of the Jets, then put on some more Suits, which has great momentum as a binge and I see why it has done so well on Netflix. Here are a very few of the flowers we saw Friday night while visiting the Amazon Spheres:
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