Today,
as I was watching some birds bringing seeds back and forth from the feeder to a
bush close by, I happened to also read these words from a poem by Tennyson: “To
watch the long bright river drawing slowly/His waters from the purple hill.” We
live a block away from the Mystic River, and it was almost as if I could see
the river at that moment, making its easy way out to the sea on this soft and
sleepy afternoon. I saw the birds brightening their day with sunflower seeds,
and I saw in my mind the sweet-tempered river “drawing slowly [its] waters from
the purple hill[s]” of Mystic and from the measureless sea close by.
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