At odds with myself, restless, discontent

Roiling neither deeply nor subtly, I

Make for Henry's, seeking his monotone

As distraction, oral monographs on

A river's intricacies, the needle's

Scratch that might sooth, or row with weighted line

To plumb the deep, scout a point crossways 'tween

Two tall-tipped pines, irrelevant to all

But Henry himself, and all important

To him. Leaving the muddy ruts of town

I come to envision something simpler— 

His craggy geographical landscape,

His visage, his silence, his presence and

Nothing more, will lead me out of myself.

~

Here I am, strolling through the woods of Concord, Mass. It seems to be a neutral day, late summer, not hot, definitely not cool, a little summer haze in the air. Gnats as pests. The walk is what, a mile and a half, two miles, from the edge of town. Not much, but enough to make a nice distinction between town and country. Henry makes this walk daily, or nearly so, and I make it often enough when I'm "in town." I usually come early, early enough to catch the morning mist on the lake, or "pond" as Henry prefers. I prefer a morning walk, but today I was busy with Saturday chores, saving what's left of the garden, trimming back the ivy, trimming the talk grass along the fences—among other things, so, yes, here I am walking through the afternoon woods.

Henry speaks in monographs. He is a pedagogue by nature, except when he's on the river. Then he's quiet and observant. Here, he saves up his thoughts for his journals and his company. It's what I need today, being restless, and what did I say . . . oh, "discontent." With what? Just an off day, out of sorts, long in the face, a touch of ennui, a little down in the dumps. Perhaps it's the dog days of summer. I know Henry and I know myself, both of us being students of the pre-Socratics. He will talk at me, I will listen. But, here, at this moment, it comes to me that maybe he won't. Maybe he'll look upon me as he looks upon his beloved rivers, quietly and with insight. In return I will look at his "craggy" visage and absorb his steadiness, though his steadiness is a little too steady for my usual temperament. 

There it is, his little home away from home. There he is, pottering about the yard as if waiting for company. Here goes.

But first, a dip. It may not be hot, but I am, and the water is near and cold.