I may be right, I may be wrong, But I'm perfectly willing to swear That when you turn'd and smiled at me, A flannel wrap, or someone who cared, sang in Berk'ley Square Sorry. A bit exuberant because I've just run across two volumes by Norman MacCaig, in perfect condition in the library bookstore, the first verse I've ever seen there. It's a sign. Clearly I should either attack Canada, setting all the vedics to "stun," or check the fridge for unbeatable and unopened dead horses. But first, a taste of the 1956 MacCaig, "Falls of Measach" The wind was basins slopping over. The river plunged into its ravine Like coins into a stocking. The day Was like the buzzard on the pine. It looked at us with eyes like resin From some shelf of the scaly past And could see nothing in between, For it knew nothing it had lost. But we were our continuation And saw our graves behind us like Waterfalls marking the stages To some rich plunge into the dark. Let the wind spill one other gust And the day like the buzzard will Sail, and sink invisible As a fossil in the distant hill. David Ritchie Portland, Oregon ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html