From a crook in the valley floor, I hear the long wires lead away from here with their thrum among the wind--over and out to those places that you observed, seemingly with half-closed eyes. I know that just over that not too distant ridge is the village of monstrous eyelids on outstretched arms, and the broken house with its fixed gaze.
Your hepaticas fill the nearby swamps and an unearthly material vibrates across the treelines.
You painted the interstitial kingdom, the insect chorus, and the trenches of a night sky. And you painted the way death calmly sits beside its bed in the rain.
And now a small voice arrives in spring like two rings from a bell.
Arrives through the canopy of green stars.
Happy birthday Charles Ephraim Burchfield.
Happy birthday Arthur Heron Chasse.