It had rained the whole weekend before, through Monday, and, as I said, just Tuesday morning. The river’s thrust literally drowns out most of what was said. I’m glad—the perfunctory pomp and circumstance was rather lack luster and moreover, I was starting to feel bored, nervous. The only audible part happens to be the only part I wish to remember: Pigpen’s stunning rendition of Frost’s “The Pasture”.
I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha’n’t be gone long. You come too.
I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha’n’t be gone long. You come too.
