Life Is Weather. Life Is Meals.

Solitude. One Knows Instinctively It Has Benefits That Must Be More Deeply Satisfying Than Those Of Other Conditions, But Still It Is Difficult.

The Whole Joy Of Writing Comes From The Opportunity To Go Over It And Make It Good, One Way Or Another.

Life Passes Into Pages If It Passes Into Anything.

We Were Moderate, We Will Never Know What It Is To Spill Out Our Lives.

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.