Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

Sitting in a barber’s chair, the sunlight falling aslant the worn linoleum – Or it might be, in the market; the man in the next stall is cutting a piece of beef – how good the red flesh looks –; I have awaked at 4:30 AM. A riotous wind is sweeping across the half-dead earth – I become conscious of my breathing, and realize all at once what a privilege it is to have this flexible lox known as the chest, which we can inflate & deflate at will; take in the pure wind – cleaned air – a glympse (sic) of the last sliver of the waning moon messaging the dawn, before the great clouds disclose it again.; Later, my neighbors thru the stair-landing under is revealed my neighbors white house as a pale phosphorescent glowing irregular shape, lit up by our stairway, the bleak dawn, our life in the village, all the parts of our existence, how great it all is –; I am home again –