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Crossing the ridge of summer
into the year's afternoon,
young redwings grown
and flocking over fields,
cobwebs revealed by the dew,
country roads shining with rain,
the morning all the more glorious
for a white fog lifting from the valley.
Over the wet hill and into the trees
I deepen the stream of my life,
a breeze rolls over in the crowns
and sends another shower down,
moths fly ahead of me close to the ground,
a windstream finds me in shade
and speaks in the hollows of my face,
me and my mountain converse.
into the year's afternoon,
young redwings grown
and flocking over fields,
cobwebs revealed by the dew,
country roads shining with rain,
the morning all the more glorious
for a white fog lifting from the valley.
Over the wet hill and into the trees
I deepen the stream of my life,
a breeze rolls over in the crowns
and sends another shower down,
moths fly ahead of me close to the ground,
a windstream finds me in shade
and speaks in the hollows of my face,
me and my mountain converse.
"I must cultivate privacy.
I cannot spare my moonlight and my mountain
for the best of man I am likely to get in exchange."
—Henry David Thoreau, Aug. 1, 1854.
—Containing notes from Thoreau's journals spanning twenty Julys.
