24 December 2007. Sun, with a few pearly clouds. Pockets of mist in the hollows--Albany Hill. Local presence. Yesterday: run of valley land, dry winter earth, sycamore and oak. Stands of cypress guarding a barn. Church doors and tractors, tended fields. River Road--riparian wilds down to the Stanislaus, woodchuck, field mouse, deer. A cooper's hawk, silent above.
Evening: with Zoya at ninety, her bright bright eyes, small intense face. American songs for a Moscow girl. "Maskvoh," Yael reminds me, insistent. "My grandmother was demanding." But Zoya listens, her ears up, hint of a nod, a frown, a smile--the feelings wash over her face--a streambed in Byelarus--all the way to the Pripyet, that same run of land--family turf--Gomel', Mozyr--far far away, long long ago...
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