So begins a fuddy-duddy Crosby Stills & Nash song that I still enjoy. And, as with many songs I have been listening to for a few decades, I'm often deaf to its anachronisms.
So I played this song recently for a friend who objected to, late in the lyrics:
Be my lady
Fair enough, it's cheesy for 2007. I, for one, looking across one certain piece of my home state late in the afternoon, crazy son-of-b1tch polyglot of terrains it may be: temperaments from peachy to sullen; ecologies from the aching parch to the screaming green; economies from fleet three-card Monte stands to Berber walls; politics from dilated-pupil skinhead to smug highbrow; and midriffs ranging in circumference from cross-stitch hoops to hula hoops; rangy though it may be, I think one can allow a 40-year old sentiment to lay in one's ear the way its writer had hoped to land it.
My daughter is looking at a series of monster mounted fish, lining the walls of a coffee shop. This German Brown from Crowley Lake, that Steelhead Trout from Bridgeport. I'd rather see the size of the men that landed them, for the one that just passed me on his way to the men's room, I believe he could sneak a small chicken out, cupped in his hand.
In the mornings this week, I am dead, my body well-used from get-up to fall-down. And so my son, impatient and eager to spend himself outdoors today, walks the dogs himself. His regard for my slow recovery is not unsympathetic, but there is work to be done. He does not like the looks of the ant hills out back.
It's a long stint, to Boston, to Ottawa, spring break, and now a moto-lodge in Eugene, OR. I'd like to keep my mind back to those growing faces, to the brighter lights of my own eyes by which I can capture their joys and stay young through them. Then I remember Robert Hass, recalling Sakyamuni teaching that the achievement of one's desire leads to more desire. So, yes, that is an easy one.
I don't care so much how this rambles, but if you don't mind my driving I'll take you to some interesting points now and then.