By Edward Thomas
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.
Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry
Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.
And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.
Monday was muggy and uneventful. I had some writing to do, lots of photo stuff to catch up on after the weekend, plus laundry, cleaning up after cats, etc. In the afternoon, I watched this week's What If...? with a friend in London, which it's enormously fun to be able to do! Then we took a walk and had veggie cheesesteaks for dinner.
We watched this week's Republic of Sarah (I like her much better as an idealistic politician than a know-it-all sanctimonious friend and relative) and now I'm watching The Pacifier because it was there and I'd managed never to see it before -- it's ridiculous and enjoyable, even passes the Bechdel Test. Wild bird rescue at the county fair: