The afternoon light across the pondis doing a good job today, the skya gray smudge with a trace of pufferybut the trees stand out in perfect clarityand here I am, and if I weren’tI wouldn’t know the difference,just as, say, Shelley wouldn’t.“O sky and song entwinèd in a wild embraceand hid asleep inside the human race,”he might have said.It’s good to think of Shelleyas a person and notthe great Romantic poetwho died at thirty tragically,Percy a young man gifted and seriouswith a big heart and an open mindwho wrote some mediocre poemsand a few truly great ones.Every night I read a few and tryto see him writing them, butall I get is a dim view of the backof a man at a table in a chilly room in Italy,his arm moving slightly,and in the flickering candlelight a womanwith a sleeping baby in her arms.From time to time the baby says “Umph”and another sheet of paper flutters downwith flowing, glistening words in black.Shelley is on fire tonight.