It is 4:30 and I am taken from my writing by the sounds of rain and wind and thrown into the woods by the sight outside my window. In the pre-dusk of cloud-light the green grass is luminous, under a gray-blue pale sky—A miraculous interchange: green moss branches with gray-blue rain-water on the naked limbs of the trees. It was 4:30 and now it is raining. It dribbles from me like words on the page.
13 January 1980