June 24, 2008. It’s about 8 in the morning.
I listened to a podcast about Grace Paley, walked up University Avenue. It was comfortable in my slight jacket. One of those days that started up right, chilly but going to be hot, and clear and sunny.
Oregon summer days, clear blue sky, dark green trees, fresh, clean.
Chilly in the morning. There’s a line in a Willy Nelson song, refers to “clear mountain mornings,” and I think of the past, clear mountain mornings that brightened my soul (whoa, pretty pretentious phrasing there, but then …
There was that valley under the peaks in the Trinity Alps, clear mountain mornings, the green meadow floor, the little lake, those peaks up above. Especially cold, but you know the heat of the day is coming … sunlight crawling down from the peaks, over the meadow, reaching the lake … granite peaks
And then whomp it’s 42 years later and here I am walking through the campus with that memory of the pleasant chill anticipating the later heat.
Listening to poetry, but in a podcast on an ipod. Forty fricken two years later.
Not that I care.
It’s a really nice morning. I stopped off at the bookstore for coffee and sweat pants.
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