There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable.
Time, designing slowly, swiftly; Time, destroying slowly, swiftly; Time holding, possessing the earth in its tender indifference.
A sickness ... defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things.
Here and there on the branch of an oak a congress of leaves still clung, rigid as flakes of bronze.
By mid-morning a rain as fine as silk spills was weaving over the lake.
But one had to go back to the beginning of things, always. Trace the thread of life - find the knot - untangle it.