Saturday, November 19, 2016


As I drew a still fresher soil about the rows with my how, I disturbed the ashes of unchronicled nations who in primeval years lived under these heavens, and their small implements of war and hunting were brought to the light of this modern day.  They lay mingled with other natural stones, some of which bore the marks of having been burned by Indian fires, and some by the sun, and also bits of pottery and glass brought hither by the recent cultivators of the soil.  When my hoe tinkled against the stones, that music echoed to the woods and the sky, and was an accompaniment to my labor which yielded an instant and immeasurable crop.  It was no longer beans that I hoed, nor I that hoed beans...

~ Henry David Thoreau
from Walden, The Bean-Field

art by Clotilde Espinosa

wind on water

A field of water betrays a spirit that is in the air. It is continually receiving
new life and motion from above.  It is intermediate in its nature between land
and sky.  On land only the grass and trees wave, but the water itself is rippled
by the wind. I see where the breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of
light.  It is remarkable that we can look down on its surface.  We shall, perhaps, 
look down thus on the surface of air at length, and mark where a still subtler
spirit sweeps over it.

 ~ Henry David Thoreau
excerpt from Walden, the ponds