You can reckon a thousand acres much, or the earth much, or the weedy patch of Brooklyn that you know and love well much. You can lean and loafe at your ease observing the flowering of a summer grass you pass. You can try to fetch the spirit of Brooklyn's own Whitman as you wander, missing him somewhere and searching another, and wonder if it isn't as true as ever that there will never be more perfection than there is now as the day he wrote his line. Rain or no rain, but we are hoping for a little less rain next week though.
*This post and a good part of its words and phrases were shamelessly stolen from Whitman's Song of Myself and tweaked into a little song of a late summer's day in Brooklyn with a break from the rain. (I'm not sure why I'm on an historic bent these days, but it will probably pass like all things.)
Where my volunteer Coneflower (Echinacea purpurea) is at today.