September 2, 2007

Two mockingbirds play in water gathered in an abandoned toy in Caroline’s yard. I have supplied them three clean birdbaths. I understand, though. One always prefers the brook in the forest to the blue-bright swimming pool. But when I looked, goldfinches were at the front birdbath, yellow against the orange of the nasturtiums. My garden is sad, spent, ragged, and I am at a loss to know what to do. Perhaps it is just the season.

Lovely party at Jack and Leland’s, conversation and too many cosmopolitans under a sky too murky for stars. Chall gave me two boxed books of 19th century American poetry. I’ve been reading Freneau, unable to believe how bad he is, unable to credit what was taken for poetry once upon a time on the frontier. They must have been so hungry for it they adopted anything that had a rhyme. A few pages away, the rushing Niagara of Whitman silences all.