Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

today that I had erred in ascribing such a regularity of his manner of singing in a previous entry. I described his song as beginning just after he had commenced to descend the air: he may commence at any time, for I observed one today start to sing immediately after rising from the deep waving grass, and continue his song thruout his flight, scattering notes from him in spatters until he once more floated down into the cool grass. Can one imagine anything more beautiful? What an ecstasy, what a joy of living he expresses. To Burroughs his song represents merely hilarity; to me it is more divine than that. True he seems hilarious over the exhilaration and freshness of June, but it strikes still a deeper chord – that of worship for the creator of such a morning. And the rollicking wind comes along, catches his notes, and scattering them far and wide, mingles them inseparably with the blue haze, clouds of dandelion seeds, sunshine, sheep sorrel pollen, and the