CLXXVI: preparation

I stopped by Teaneck Creek this morning to tag the likely spot for the county to deposit the remains of the Cedar lane tree. The smaller branches are going to a sawmill for future use, the big pieces are still up in the air, but I'll feel better with them someplace I can get at...

...

and at last we saw some people... 

at last we saw some people...

at last we saw some people huddled up against

the rain that was descending like railroad spikes and hammers

they were headed for the border—walking and then running

and then they were gone into the fog but Anne said underneath their jackets she saw wings

Josh Ritter, Wings

CLXXV

CLXXIV

CLXXIII

CLXXII

If I were asked to say what is at once the most important production of Art and the thing most to be longed for; I should answer; A beautiful House; and if I were further asked to name the production next in importance and the thing next to be longed for; I should answer; A beautiful Book. To enjoy good houses and good books in self-respect and decent comfort, seems to me to be the pleasurable end towards which all societies of human beings ought now to struggle.  William Morris

CLXXI

Life without industry is guilt, and industry without art is brutality. John Ruskin, Lectures on Art

CLXX

The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run --
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.

Robert Frost, A Brook In The City