Frost at midnight is silent and full of sky, and the sky is full of galactic clouds. You stand on a rickety bridge over a brook and look at satellites and stars.
Around you are flat dark fields grazed in the morning by deer who come in from the hills that circle the fields. You’re standing in a bowl of dry grains circled by the hills.
Early this morning I put on my black alpaca coat and my black winter hat and black gloves and walked the circuit of the farm, starting with the deer on the fields near Route 92. Cows lowed from a neighboring farm. I moved on to the goats, who clattered out of the barn when they heard me; and then to the llamas.
Now I walked the labyrinth on the far side of the house, along the brook. I walked its stony turns slowly… Frost performed its secret ministry. I took up abstruser musings. Strange and extreme silentness.
November 27th, 2010 at 6:30PM
“Silentness” – why this choice?
November 27th, 2010 at 9:05PM
I’m taking it directly from Coleridge’s poem, Mr Punch. Just using his words here and there in my last paragraph. There’s a link to the poem on the word “frost” in that paragraph.