High Woon 
the goldenrod, and here in July, the sumac, give down 
to these immigrant bees their honey-sweets. 
High noon of the year! The laggard breeze comes 
to me now from the maple swamp, slow and sleepy 
with the odor of the white azaleas; a flock of chick- 
adees stop and quiz me; the quivering click-clack of 
a distant mowing-machine fills the air with a drowsy 
hum. 
Up to this time I have not seen a black snake, but 
now one is watching me with raised head from the 
edge of ferns among the rocks. One step toward him 
and the lifted, rigid neck, a flashing streak of jet, glides 
swiftly, evenly, mysteriously away, leaving me with an 
uncanny feeling of chill. 
It, too, is a creature of the sun, as is everything that 
seems to belong especially to July. Smells, colors, 
sounds, shapes, are all sun-born. The hum of the in- 
sects, the music of the mower, the clear, strong hues 
of the flowers, the sweet breath of curing hay, the 
heavy balsamic odors of the woods, — everything seems 
either a distillation, a vibration, an essence, or some 
direct, immediate work of the sun. 
Has your blood been work and winter faded until 
it runs thin? Would you feel the pulse of a new 
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