The Night Migrations
By Louise Glück
This is the moment when you see again
the red berries of the mountain ash
and in the dark sky
the birds' night migrations.
It grieves me to think
the dead won't see them--
these things we depend on,
they disappear.
What will the soul do for solace then?
I tell myself maybe it won't need
these pleasures anymore;
maybe just not being is simply enough,
hard as that is to imagine.
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Another quickie because I got to spend another day with
After Hugh, we decided we needed to see Russell Crowe
I have a bunch of feelings about the Oscars, McFarlane, why a film like Argo would beat Zero Dark Thirty, and what gets called sexist versus what does not -- it's so easy to shout about the created-to-be-offensive "We Saw Your Boobs" along with everyone else in the world, much rarer to hear shouting about the rampant sexism from popular hosts like Billy Crystal, Steve Martin, etc. -- but I am too tired to be coherent and I am in squee mode anyway. Here are some cardinals we saw along the C&O Canal the weekend before last:



