"Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are
Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through
The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy
Calling the cows home.
A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but
Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset
Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on
The misty hill-tops.
Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning
Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are
A silent army of phantoms thronging
A land of shadows".
On this Good Friday I spent the day at the office. During lunch, I wandered about a bit in my car, learning that a greenbelt trail I had not hiked is but a short way from my work. I stopped at a discount store I had not visited before, and spent five minutes walking among thirty dollar bicycles, inexpensive furniture arrays, and those odd glassine landscapes which come complete with lighting fixtures behind them. No artistic meadow shines with such an incandescent glow as that which is in fact incandescently back-lit. I walked out sans purchases.
The eighty-degree days of the past weekend now dissolve into a forecast of forty five with a slight chance of snow admixed in the rain. Where I grew up, the state-wide newspaper columnist called this the April Jonquil and Snow Tire festival.
I am taking a little work home with me, so as to achieve things I did not achieve today. I look forward to a quiet weekend, and the mild thrill of a warming chill.