Mulling things on my morning ramble
with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
Yesterday, I finally got up to see where the former Hofmann Dam was taken out of the Des Plaines River at Lyons.
Astonishing. Just astonishing. I can see why people were bringing their 93-year-old dads to see it.
It's a river again.
The first thing I noticed, other than it actually looked like a river again with riffles, pools and bends, was how it sounded.
The sound of running water came and went, a wavering natural sound.
The way I first remember Pine Creek, more of a wild mountain river than a creek, sounding on family vacations as a kid.
In Illinois, the best stretches of the Kankakee River make that sound.
Running water is a primal sound, a sound for the soul. Far different than the insistent white noise pounding below a dam.
I am not a fan of elaborate poetry. Williams Carlos Williams is my guy, even his dense poems are not what I would call elaborate constructions.
But Wallace Stevens, who truly constructed elaborate poetry, perfectly nailed the feel of running water in his poem, Sea Surface Full of Clouds
I think my favorite is the final two paragraphs of the fourth section:
The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing, Would--But more suddenly the heaven rolled
Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green,
And the nakedness became the broadest blooms,
Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled.
Mull that for a while.
Four Canada geese on the south old clay pit: two swimming quietly by the island, two standing on shore.
Enjoying their quiet eyeing of us, I was suddenly startled to hear a belted kingfisher. There's nothing quiet about them, and nothing particularly charming about their call. Finally I saw it fly off, still squawking.
No rabbits. No doves. One gray squirrel back in town.
We need the sound of running water again on the land before winter freeze dries everything. Only .1 inches of rain last night.