Horizonte

White shoulders against a gray-tan world. Figure in the mist, but all is clear. As to language--Bello Horizonte--the sound of it. From the Latin--where form supercedes feeling... How is that now not possible? Catullus, Horace...Ovid. Too much of a track record. And yet, the Mediterranean light--with fewer middle tones, shadings. Where are those northern shadows...the long, slow dusk in Amsterdam, fading into evening...

Primavera

Spring like days, mid-February, tiny white blossoms on narrow plum branches, shower of yellow on the mimosa. Playing by the edge of Thousand Oaks field--ring of old brickwork around an even older oak, tangle of alder and willow down to the stream... Seated there, with guitar, looking out at figures in the sun--the young Asian woman who tosses a ball for her three young children, squatting now on her haunches, in what must be the old country way, so that even her three-year old is taller as she stands wobbily alongside... Approaching, on the other side of the fence, and smiling as she hears the music--Roll on Columbia, in a low voice, blending in with the leaves... This Land Is Your Land, slow as well, thinking of the way Dylan handles it--a kind of recognition, a homage...times remembered, times known...