One hundred times

 

_DSC006008.30.14  This is my 100th post on Finding home in Montana.  I guess I’ve had 100 things to photograph and 100 things to say–so far–about what the skies are like in the place I call home.  Usually, it starts from the photograph I’ve taken or by a dream in the night, or by something I’ve written in my morning pages, and often from a poem I’ve read.   Last night, after dinner with Rita, I drove home at dark with my window down to smell the freshly harvested wheat and watched a yellow crescent moon hang low over the western mountains.  it was so warm that I turned the ceiling fan back on before I went to bed.  But, I didn’t sleep well, listening for the waves which would announce the arrival of the cool weather system moving in for August’s remaining two days.  I awakened with that deep ache of Summer’s ending, even as Autumn is my favorite season.

This morning, I headed out for a run and spotted sailboats on the other side of the lake in the winds.  This was likely the last chance this summer to photograph the Saturday morning races and there was enough sunlight filtering through the clouds to make their sails dazzle white against the soft blue waters.  Abandoning the run, I drove across the head of the lake to the other side, but they had disappeared by the time I got there.   Just that fast.  Just like Summer does every single year.  The photograph I ended up with came from the poem I read this morning on The Writer’s Almanac.  “…this light at the end of summer lengthening as it begins to go…”

Season by W.S. Merwin

This hour along the valley this light at the end
of summer lengthening as it begins to go
this whisper in the tawny grass this feather floating
in the air this house of half a life or so
this blue door open to the lingering sun this stillness
echoing from the rooms like an unfinished sound
this fraying of voices at the edge of the village
beyond the dusty gardens this breath of knowing
without knowing anything this old branch from which
years and faces go on falling this presence already
far away this restless alien in the cherished place
this motion with no measure this moment peopled
with absences with everything that I remember here
eyes the wheeze of the gate greetings birdsongs in winter
the heart dividing dividing and everything
that has slipped my mind as I consider the shadow
all this has occurred to somebody else who has gone
as I am told and indeed it has happened again
and again and I go on trying to understand
how that could ever be and all I know of them
is what they felt in the light here in this late summer

2 thoughts on “One hundred times

  1. Rita Fitzsimmons

    Congrats on the 100th birthday of the most elegant, wistful weather report I ever get to read.

    “Season” is absolute perfection. Oh my. I loved it. Thanks.

    Rita Fitzsimmons Sent from my iPad

    >

    Reply

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