The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Wednesday and Washington County Waterfowl

Fixed Interval
By Devin Johnston

When he turns fifteen, you'll be fifty-four.
When he turns thirty, you'll be sixty-nine.
This plain arithmetic amazes more
than miracle, the constant difference more
than mere recursion of father in son.
If you reach eighty, he'll be forty-one!

The same sun wheels around again, the dawn
drawn out and hammered thin as a copper sheet.
When he turns sixty you'll be gone.
Compacted mud, annealed by summer heat,
two ruts incise this ghost-forsaken plain
and keep their track width, never to part or meet.


It snowed all morning. Though only about half an inch stuck -- and not on the roads, just the sidewalks and grass and windshields -- it made me not want to drive, and we're supposed to get at least three times as much tomorrow morning before rush hour. I don't really mind the cold, but I have really had enough of winter and am ready for flowers! I have nothing else exciting to report from the work-and-chores part of the day, other than I now know why Disney Movie Rewards was giving away Enchanted on DVD for so few points: it's the Fullscreen version.

In the evening we caught up on the Downton Abbey Christmas special/season finale, which was my favorite of the year -- of course, I am completely biased because George V and Edward VIII were in it, there was not nearly enough Dowager Countess. Then we caught up on Almost Human, which I wish had fewer murder cases but had my favorite line yet this season ("Do you want me to come to a bar with you and watch you drink?"). Here are some photos of the waterfowl and fish in the park at the Washington County Museum of Fine Arts on Sunday:


  • Poem for Thursday and Great Falls Geese

    I Am Waiting By Lawrence Ferlinghetti I am waiting for my case to come up and I am waiting for a rebirth of wonder and I am waiting for someone…

  • Poem for Wednesday and Great Falls Cardinals

    The Bird Her Punctual Music Brings By Emily Dickinson The Bird her punctual music brings And lays it in its place— Its place is in the Human…

  • Poem for Tuesday and Carderock

    A wounded Deer – leaps highest – By Emily Dickinson A wounded Deer – leaps highest – I've heard the Hunter tell – 'Tis but the ecstasy of death…

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded