No noise, no conversation. Fourth of July and the only thing I hear are the 2 streams on my property roaring, now that darkness has dropped its curtain on the bird song.

I was expecting a completely different July 4th, but one person in our group of friends that returned together from a party in NYC came down with Covid! I was halfway through the holiday having attended parties, Stagecoach, and an excellent theatrical presentation at the Franklin Stage, when I found this out on Sunday morning. I was a little depressed, for I cancelled my own little jam session/party on Monday as well as attending a larger jam/potluck party on July 4th. Isolation. But this evening. . . Exquisite!

Plus, accompanied by the release of stress of being in the role of an expectant father. For the first time ever, 7 of my birdhouses were occupied by Swallows, 1 by Bluebirds, the other 6 by Wrens. The Wrens often kill the young of the Swallows and Bluebirds. But this year, the Swallows changed their defenses. Now one parent always stayed in the birdhouse with the youngsters, fighting off the aggressive Wrens. (This never used to happen, for my property was mainly open cow pastures. But I planted hundreds of trees and bushes to create a habitat for wildlife. The Wrens moved in after the shield of open fields—which Wrens would not cross—disappeared.)
I do believe all the Swallows fledged. Relief! I was beginning to wonder if the aging hatchlings were special needs. “Get out, get out, don’t make your parents work so hard!” My fretting is done.

The NYC excursion was quite lovely. Even though I have no tolerance for crowds, cement, noise, and the endless addition of skyscrapers with 4th and 5th homes for the ultra ruling class. But my friend’s party—on a Circle Line Boat she rented—floated about the Hudson River & Bay, surrounded by the excesses of the beautifully lit skylines of the uber city of our civilization. I allowed the sparkle to momentarily push aside the obvious.

The previous weekend I attended the 80th birthday party of Gerard Malanga, in which he read his brilliant poetry in a loft of a barn in the Catskills. This was bookended at the MET Friday where I saw Richard Avedon’s show. Two rooms covered by 4 photos: a board of directors, the Chicago 7—with a space for Bobby Seals (all heroes of mine), plus a group photo of all the participants of Andy Warhol’s Factory—which included the 9′ high image of Gerard Malanga. The circle completes.

Now it is July 4th. Sequestered until I know that I am not carrying Covid, but not alone. This evening I took a 6 mile walk along the main road that passes my property. On the entire walk only 5 cars passed me—on a July 4th weekend! I LOVE it here! I bonded with the trees, the streams, the sky, the mountains. Mountains that looked exactly the same as hundreds of years ago when the Delaware Indians lived along the banks of the East Branch of the Delaware—now sunk below the Pepacton Reservoir, as is the much later hamlet of Shavertown. On my quiet walk I heard the songs of 9 Hermit Thrush and 1 Wood Thrush. During the songs I watched a baby black porcupine on a branch. . . What a lovely atmosphere for its first Summer on the planet.

As I walked the bend on the final hill approaching home I saw many thunderheads lit by sunlight, though the sun had already set. I looked down, spread below me was a slow motion explosion—a 20’x20′ patch of yellow crown vetch covered the ground, accentuated here and there by rising daisies, white aster-like flowers, and white yarrow—comparable to any town’s fireworks, but here at my feet in quietude.
A most wonderful 4th of July in Andes.~

No noise, no conversation. Fourth of July and the only thing I hear are the 2 streams on my property roaring, now that darkness has dropped its curtain on the bird song.

I was expecting a completely different July 4th, but one person in our group of friends that returned together from a party in NYC came down with Covid! I was halfway through the holiday having attended parties, Stagecoach, and an excellent theatrical presentation at the Franklin Stage, when I found this out on Sunday morning. I was a little depressed, for I cancelled my own little jam session/party on Monday as well as attending a larger jam/potluck party on July 4th. Isolation. But this evening. . . Exquisite!

Plus, accompanied by the release of stress of being in the role of an expectant father. For the first time ever, 7 of my birdhouses were occupied by Swallows, 1 by Bluebirds, the other 6 by Wrens. The Wrens often kill the young of the Swallows and Bluebirds. But this year, the Swallows changed their defenses. Now one parent always stayed in the birdhouse with the youngsters, fighting off the aggressive Wrens. (This never used to happen, for my property was mainly open cow pastures. But I planted hundreds of trees and bushes to create a habitat for wildlife. The Wrens moved in after the shield of open fields—which Wrens would not cross—disappeared.)
I do believe all the Swallows fledged. Relief! I was beginning to wonder if the aging hatchlings were special needs. “Get out, get out, don’t make your parents work so hard!” My fretting is done.

The NYC excursion was quite lovely. Even though I have no tolerance for crowds, cement, noise, and the endless addition of skyscrapers with 4th and 5th homes for the ultra ruling class. But my friend’s party—on a Circle Line Boat she rented—floated about the Hudson River & Bay, surrounded by the excesses of the beautifully lit skylines of the uber city of our civilization. I allowed the sparkle to momentarily push aside the obvious.

The previous weekend I attended the 80th birthday party of Gerard Malanga, in which he read his brilliant poetry in a loft of a barn in the Catskills. This was bookended at the MET Friday where I saw Richard Avedon’s show. Two rooms covered by 4 photos: a board of directors, the Chicago 7—with a space for Bobby Seals (all heroes of mine), plus a group photo of all the participants of Andy Warhol’s Factory—which included the 9′ high image of Gerard Malanga. The circle completes.

Now it is July 4th. Sequestered until I know that I am not carrying Covid, but not alone. This evening I took a 6 mile walk along the main road that passes my property. On the entire walk only 5 cars passed me—on a July 4th weekend! I LOVE it here! I bonded with the trees, the streams, the sky, the mountains. Mountains that looked exactly the same as hundreds of years ago when the Delaware Indians lived along the banks of the East Branch of the Delaware—now sunk below the Pepacton Reservoir, as is the much later hamlet of Shavertown. On my quiet walk I heard the songs of 9 Hermit Thrush and 1 Wood Thrush. During the songs I watched a baby black porcupine on a branch. . . What a lovely atmosphere for its first Summer on the planet.

As I walked the bend on the final hill approaching home I saw many thunderheads lit by sunlight, though the sun had already set. I looked down, spread below me was a slow motion explosion—a 20’x20′ patch of yellow crown vetch covered the ground, accentuated here and there by rising daisies, white aster-like flowers, and white yarrow—comparable to any town’s fireworks, but here at my feet in quietude.
A most wonderful 4th of July in Andes.~