Saturday commute v

Out our window, we watch the UVA boys going off to swimming practice, flotation at the ready for their meet today with Princeton, valour unmistakable; while, in New Haven, Yale's pet implores the Tiger at the station, for some favours from the gridiron in the Bowl. The aviator's packed for any destination that will have him, no hip flask left to mar his symmetry. It's a day when we don't wonder where to be. 

Whit and I are at home to savour life in sweet alignment. It's the season's peak in the Piedmont, it's Pinot Noir weather again, and John Le Carré has a new book out. You just can't think of a suppler languour for an English Cocker Spaniel, than a master whose ankle has seen the last of his boots for the day, and has a sensuous Échézaux in hand to coax a text of intrigue from the best.


For as the sun is daily new and old
So is my love still telling what is told.

Translucent leaves of maple blaze, entrapt, in naked stems of lavender, and watercress shine green in practice rows for sandwiches. We still feel the light, but now it soothes, diffuse in reciprocity with seethings of the earth. There could be truffles for our quail, pale gnocchi for its foil.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride, 

So far from variation or quick change?

The Côte d'Or, when decanted, is our hour's natural scent; its earthiness, when glazed, will steep the air in plushest loam of garnet. The blood awakens as it warms to consanguinity discovered in its depth. Charlemagne, on Corton's molded peak, could claim no more than lendings of its fruit. Speak, cousin.

William Shakespeare,
Sonnet 76