Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1915

As the fog lifted up from the dripping trees this morning, a catbird hastily sought the highest branch of our apple tree and sang copiously. White sun in loose fog mists – Robins singing –
A day of powerful stagnant thunderclouds. The air, seems sticky – it is full of a blueish white haze –
Hear yellow bird at evening just before a storm approaches — swallows sailing black against white swift changing thunderheads – small flocks of black birds hustling southward – A heavy shower –
Melancholy possesses me at my happiest moments – I cannot understand it –
At night I like to hear a remote train-whistle – it leads my mind into weirdly melancholy imaginings–
A moth is seeking to get in my window –
Charles E. Burchfield, July 1, 1915