Walden. last sunday Stephen Vincent and I met at the pond. he's on this coast for a number of functions, which he will likely recount on his blog. we met at the replica of Thoreau's hut, located in the parking lot across the street from the entrance to the pond. a crisp autumnal afternoon, postcard pretty. we circumambulated and talked. I like offering the local highlights to people, share my interest. Olson's sense, or sensation, of local very much excited me as I came to understand poetry, and the greater surge of writing. btw, Ron Silliman lists 25 recently received books. 24 are categorized as poetry. the 25th, The Light Sang as it Left Your Eyes by Eileen Tabios, was placed in the molten category of other. it is a fussy fustian that would make such a distinction. so Eileen's not a poet, eh, she's an otherist. which, frankly, I'd like to be, as well. but anyway. that tangent drew from my own, if not Mr Silliman's, fluid sense of poetry's boundaries. so anyway, we, this nuclear family, have taken Walden as a necessity. we've declared that sunlight on water, etc, is needed on the bows of our eyes. water is like that, certes. Beth was on the Jersey shore with a friend last weekend, feeling that resource. bodies of water bear primordial benefit, or something like. Walden is our local fare. today we brought picnic and settled near the shore. swimmers criss crossed the water. the sun glinted low with metallic harshness (last gasp). 3 pairs of mallards noisily preened and dabbled. Erin remained behind reading while Beth and I took a lap. autumn in th air and that rings an urge to read the English Romantics. always, this is true.