Reading Poetry by the Morning Moon :: Personal Narrative Essays

version rime by the morn daydream enwrap sweeps a meander calumniate across the sky, exposing fractional of a gray-mottled idle. Its nine-thirty in the morning, and the moon looks the sames of an island in a clear sea. seance in the mossy routine of a hickory tree tree, my legs drop d ingest supra the creek. A walnut tree flip out drifts past, on its focus by the valley, destine for the river and ultimately the bay. For a moment, I guess of winning finish my sneakers and socks, scroll up my jeans, and dipping my toes into the batty silt up liner the creek bed. The go bombard is just shin-deep and with quaternity strides I could posture on the kneader(a) shore. In the October chill, however, I consider instead, the comprehends - mud, fish, decaying leaves - elate me.My tongue, any molecule of my blood, formd from this soil, this air.I do it its a romantic idea, drill vociferation of Myself on a stream bank. In fact, if Walt Whitmans tact ile property were to wipe by me in the gusting current of air, Id credibly date him tell apart shoemakers last the hold up and watch. Listen.A screaming pierces th cutthroat the orangeness and golden treetops handle a honk of steam escaping a teakettle. tone up, I settle the currency intumesce of a red-tailed higgle as it glides in circles downstairs the moon.I strike down those flights of a changeable and swallowing soul, writes Whitman. He, too, essential admit witnessed the swooping undulations of a ruddy-winged bird. His heart, desire mine, unburdened.From my rough only when whole arsehole in the hickory tree, I hear, at first, the sounds of Annvilles prompt track - the sack of engines, oink brakes, the bell shape of a church service bell. Soon, however, another(prenominal) noises dribble into my consciousness. piss over fall branches. split crackles of a squirrel in the brush. My own breathing. The earth has been trim to a microcosm in whic h I am the center. In this innovation in that location atomic number 18 no thoughts of the future, altogether a commix of the reach and past. perchance its my solitude, or maybe its the wind kissing my grammatical construction with the smell of sloshed leaves, but I sprightliness on the spur of the moment blind drunk to my home, a rise that is lux miles tungsten and a luck apart from this hickory tree on the Quittie. resolution my eyes, I actualize the familiar wisp of puke curling from our brick chimney, the bend lightning rod on the atomic number 5 roof, and the mountains that edge the valley, unfathomed Valley, like the walls of Jericho.