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 blackbirds 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 wierdly melancholy imaginings – A moth is seeking to get in my window –

Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, July 1, 1915