Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, April 8, 1915

First wakening – blinding last quarter moon in a black sky; next the red horizon fading upwards; and lastly the white sun flooding the frost-coated earth. Thru Park: The melted frost in the frothy sun, sparkles and turn the jagged turf whitish; robins are the songsters.

Returning from school, the brilliant morning sunshine flooding the trees which front me, I think how the day should be spent afield. Again to I long for absolute solitude. A cardinal resounds in the sun-shot woods; I espy him topping a remote tree; burning against the blue even at that distance. I hear a new note – Peer – Peer – Peer – Pr – Pr Pr – Ree – Pre pr – How the black trees shoot upwards against the white horizon –

At work all day on a poster. Purple grackles glistening on the lawn – sinewy blue necks and gold-bronze backs – one of the most graceful birds we have. There is something suggestive of Oriental passion dancing about them; or of the silky beauty of a snake.

Walk to work – the grass is commencing to bristle, but is not fresh; the season is too dry yet for a green spring – we went without Equinoctional storms.

Evening to Piano Recital by Copeland with HA. I realized tonight that music is one of the necessities – without it for several weeks, I was restless and ill at ease - either music or to be afield. 

Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, April 8, 1915