7 am walk to the french pastry shop . .
cricket investigating the crumbs . .
a book of william wordsworth poetry morgan gave me for christmas, purchased from
his house in the lake district where they visited in the fall with harley and her family.
owl calls
there was a boy - ye knew him well, ye cliffs
and islands of winander - many a time
at evening, when the stars had just begun
to move along the edges of the hills,
rising or setting, would he stand alone
beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake,
and there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth
uplifted, he as through an instrument
blew mimic hootings to the silent owls
that they might answer him. and they would shout
across the watery vale, and shout again,
responsive to his call, with quivering peals
and long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud,
redoubled and redoubled - concourse wild
of mirth and jocund din.
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