Outside in

I didn't go far today. Spent much too much time watching the shifting patterns that the dying clematis and vine were making in the sun and wind. They reminded me of a favourite poem, which I was astonished recently to find means exactly the opposite to some people of what it means to me.

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

James Arlington Wright