Charles Burchfield, Journals, March 23, 1920

At noon I sit on the back porch in the hot sunlight—the ground ticks with the sticky dripping sound of the melting frost—the dry grass is matted like a poodle-dog that has been thrown in the water—the cackling of the hens from steaming manure piles, with visions of far stretching white March plains to the south—a carpenter pounds the resounding boards—three boys trying to fly a kite in a little two by four yard fill the air with their cries—a cat is rolling, luxuriantly in the dry grass—the ground gives off a warm heavy odor like hepaticas—thank God to be alive on such a day! One can embrace once’s worst enemy today—We walk along the street—we see faces in which there is dumb agony; or aimless joy, or the healthy animalism of youths, innocence of little children, pessimistic old age, leering sensuality, crude materialism, cold reserve or stupidity, smiling exultation—the wonder that it all takes place under the vastness of the blue sky.

Charles Burchfield, March 23, 1920