BEYOND THE REALM OF WEATHER 205 



seemed a dream. The reality was the marsh, 

 with its fog and its pricking raindrops and its 

 sentinel cedars, its silence and its wings. 



In the days that followed, the fog passed, 

 and there were long, warm rains. The marsh 

 called us, but we could not go. Then the sky 

 cleared, the wind rose, the mercury began to 

 drop. Jonathan looked across the luncheon 

 table and said, &quot;What about ducks?&quot; 



&quot;Can you get off ?&quot; I asked joyously. 



&quot;I can t, but I will,&quot; he replied. 



And this time Did I think I knew the 

 marsh? Did I suppose, having seen it at dawn 

 in the fall days when the sun still rises early, 

 having seen it in winter twilight, fog-beset, 

 that I knew it? Do I suppose I know it now? 

 At least I know it better, having seen it under 

 a clearing sky, when the cold wind sweeps it 

 clean, and the air, crystalline, seems like a lens 

 through which one looks and sees a revelation 

 of new things. 



As we struck into the marsh, just at sun 

 down, my first thought was a rushing prayer 

 for words, for colors, for something to catch 

 and hold the beauty of it. But there are no 

 words, no colors. No one who has not seen 



