My word for today is “intertinged” from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.
I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.
Thanks to Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac
for reacquainting me with Walt Whitman. If there ever was a tour de force in poetry, this is it.
Sunday’s almost-fog brought back memories, simmering just below the surface. On our walk the smell reminded me of cow pastures – not that
smell, but the smell of earth and mud, sweet hay and crushed grass under big, warm, slow-moving bodies.