I return to the Farm late tonight/early tomorrow morning. I will drive from the
fume-infused, roaring aired airport into the thick, insect-orchestrated music that is the
sleeping world of the Farm. It will feel good to be home; to march about my home,
like a dog, taking it all in; snuffing out what is mine; finally circling a few times and
dropping down onto my bed, stretching out and feeling my body down to the tips of my
toes and into the shoots of my fingers. Everything will be familiar. Everything will be
being home.
"On the Grasshopper and Cricket"
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.--John Keats
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