Why do I now write so infrequently in this journal? It is and has been a wonderful spring—the whole world, city as well as country, seems more beautiful even than the ecstatic “early” years when I was largely emotional and did not yet have my language or knowledge. When for instance was that “perfect” day in May when the weather was warm, and all the birds seemed delirious with life and expressed it in tumultuous song? Especially two male orioles who sang constantly with only brief moments out for sparring with each other.
Trips into the country when everything seemed too beautiful for endurance—unrecorded; to Gowanda, the Big Woods, Zoar Valley, Yorkshire and Arcade, and up north through the Indian Reservation (Great colonies of Bluebells; and young cottonwoods all fuzzy and white, scattering their “cotton”) & northwards on 63 [i.e. 62, etc].
In this time I brought the “Four Seasons” (better—Fantasy of the Seasons?) more or less to a conclusion—It is in the house now for study—
Charles Burchfield, May 13, 1960