Wind booms on the wooded hill and sets
The dogs to barking under roiling clouds
At the end of the briefest day, beginning
Of the longest night, when it's easy to give in
To the end of promise, to dwindling days,
Afraid for what is still to be lost.
We must make do. We must make do
With movement, make do with wind
And with the sun, not with the flame of
Rapture we may never find, but with its seeking.
-under the spell of Joan Didion.
