7 March 2007, Wednesday. Down by the Salley Gardens... Quiet gray dawn, wafts of steam rising from surface of pool...woman in soft red, sporadic underwater strokes, head above the surface like some caucasian otter. How things ought 'er be...Woody Guthrie's diction--out of the Indian territories... "You'd better go back to Ok-la-ho-ma...," tornado winds and the sudden freeze...Seminoles shipped west--the quiet forest dwellers--marched across to the harshest plains...Canada winds at full gale, all the way down the prairie. No wonder it's clipped--the words, I mean--no time to do anything but stay warm--or cool, as the case may be--all this reflected in the way you talk. Inviting, though--like a cabin door, open to all...
As opposed to the Irish hearth. Decades of stories--centuries--each one refashioned, time and again--enjoyed in the making A kind of luxury--rural, loquacious...hill and dale, cows on a winding path...the need for song...
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