every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless
—from Morning in the Burned House, by Margaret Atwood
(An excerpt from a poem shared by a friend this morning; the title of this post is from same)
. . .
Spent two days camping upstate midweek, and the first day was clear and beautiful, temperate. The sky-blue sky and stark white clouds reflected on the stillness of the pond. After sundown: a sky full of glitter— so many stars it was difficult to find Orion as we peered up through the tall trees.
Day two broke wan and grey with the shrieks of crows overhead, tricksters. Autumn had arrived in earnest, layers needed against the chill, but it was a fine way to transition the seasons, in a hilly wooded landscape.