“Junco River” (photo by m.a.h. hinton)
Here in the North Country early winter has arrived. A cold day of grey rain and big white flakes of snow that melted as soon as they hit the ground reminded us of what the next months will bring.
At lunch, I went walking along the river. Last time I had walked that same stretch of river the trees had not yet fully turned. Today they were bare and wet and the only birds I saw were a few crows that sat high on an old cottonwood… heedless of the wet, cold day.
Winter in the North Country brings a different kind of beauty… leads to a different kind of wonder.
I am planning to spend the winter months reading Thoreau… and reporting back to MontanaWriter some of what I am reading.
Reading Thoreau is rich diggings. There is so much to be mined from what he has written… and there is much to be mindful of.
Today’s quotes concern two things that I consider to be two of the most interesting things in the world: rivers and poetry.
Enjoy!
A few quotes from Thoreau’s Journals
RIVERS
For the first time it occurred to me this afternoon what a piece of wonder a river is,— a huge volume of matter ceaselessly rolling through the fields and meadows of this substantial earth, making haste from the high places, by stable dwellings of men and Egyptian Pyramids, to its restless reservoir. One would think that, by a very natural impulse, the dwellers upon the headwaters of the Mississippi and Amazon would follow in the trail of their waters to see the end of the matter. [Thoreau, Henry David; Searls, Damion (2011-11-16). The Journal of Henry David Thoreau, 1837-1861 (New York Review Books Classics) (p. 7). Random House Inc Clients. Kindle Edition.]
POETRY
No definition of poetry is adequate unless it be poetry itself. [Thoreau, Henry David; Searls, Damion (2011-11-16). The Journal of Henry David Thoreau, 1837-1861 (New York Review Books Classics) (p. 9). Random House Inc Clients. Kindle Edition.]The best poetry has never been written, for when it might have been, the poet forgot it, and when it was too late remembered it; or when it might have been, the poet remembered it, and when it was too late forgot it. [Thoreau, Henry David; Searls, Damion (2011-11-16). The Journal of Henry David Thoreau, 1837-1861 (New York Review Books Classics) (p. 10). Random House Inc Clients. Kindle Edition.]