Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

March 13, 1921; Misty sunlight follows a gay foggy forenoon – I travel to Little Beaver – {?} whistle of meadowlark & harsh scream of hawk –; I thought that now I ought to be sunning myself on the southern side of a home on a hillside, with children of my own and playing in the dry grass, and my wife being inside, in order to be attune to the season – but perhaps then I wouldn’t have my day dreams; Down along the creek the frogs are busy with their harsh chirping croak, that mingles with the roar of the rapids –; The dull noon heat of March beats down on us, we long for water, & animal like, are angry at the unknown power –