"–but most of all, or far or near, the wind–through the high tree -tops, or through low bushes, laving one's face and hands so gently, this balmy-bright noon, the coolest for a long time..." – Whitman, from "Distant Sounds"









10/18

Broad stroke of a lake without boats but a watercolor, bubbling, wave upon wave, barely gulping inward toward shore from the low blowing wind, and holds then carries the oranges and yellows from the maples and oaks.  The bridges are sturdy as ever against the change of seasons, old ramparts and leave their own arching shadows over the melting of the autumn colors.  A sky hawk had just circled from the leap off of a great falling oak until he had seen the glimmer of a small fish in the shallows then collapsed its wings and dove down into the water quickly stabbing.  Only the far off clinking of some jackhammer at the capitol competes with this early noon hour quiet.  Foot traffic, jogging and mothers behind strollers, the man in the leaf pile grabbing with gloves, are nothing but slight motion and no sound.  Men and women at the back sides of their lakeside houses reading books from balconies, the pages turning only as loud as the last wave rolling over the quarried stone at the tip of the Yahara.