Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

happening from day to day now. And too I imagine that perhaps some of the things I experienced seem wonderful just because they were new.

This is a typical August day - hot sun - bluish white sky with a few thunderheads and an occasionally hot breeze. A cicada was singing a moment ago. Burroughs describes his song as a brassy crescendo; a fine description. Its song is to me typical of a sultry summer day. When I hear it, I close my eyes and I see a white dusty road along which I am going in my bare feet (for I am a little boy when I hear it) which are burned by the hot dust from which arise quivering heat waves. The sky is the same - the blue turned to sickly whitish blue by the heat of the sun, and rolling thunderheads in the distance; great ivory moun­tains - rich fields for the imagination. And dominating all sounds - all other creatures