There are some rather pleasant sights to see whilst driving home over the mountains, by driving I mean of course relaxing on a train that moves steadily, listening to the exquisite words of an Oxonian don read aloud by a tremendously British fellow, one can enjoy a magnificent vista of pure white. This is what I newly have experienced. Would it were just a few hours shorter. I came to think, when, as mentioned, listening to the hazardous adventures read in a outstandingly soft tone, about misty mountains. I must say that I find it most disturbing to see people dressed up in strange contraptions ready to fling themselves down from a mountain top. But then again, having spent quite a few Easters in a somewhat gray city just around April, I remembered a small poem by Carl Sandburg:
"Just Before April Came"
The Snow piles in dark places are gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.
A white pigeon reels and somersaults.
Frogs plutter and squdge - and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin
steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these people?
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