Murmuring of the brook in late summer darkness, after moonset, as I lay sleepless on the porch cot. A music extraordinarily variable. Each passage of water against its stone sounding a different pitch and rhythm. It was an uncivilized music in the foothills of the mountains, continuing long beyond the endurance of a human singer,… Continue reading Hayden Carruth
Thus each of us had to be content to live only for the day, alone under the vast indifference of the sky. — Albert Camus, The Plague. (Vintage, May 7, 1991) Originally published June 1947.
how small the day is the time of colors the rush of brightness — W.S. Merwin, from “The Hours of Darkness,” Poetry Vol. 174, No. 3, JUNE 1999