Explore "The Fall of the Year" by Dallas Lore Sharp on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We have had a week of almost unbroken rain, and the water is standing over the swampy meadow. It is a dreary stretch, -- this wet, sedgy land in the cold twilight, -- drearier than any part of the woods or the upland pastures. They are empty; but the meadow is flat and wet, it is naked and all unsheltered. And a November night is falling.
The darkness deepens. A raw wind is rising. At nine o'clock the moon swings round and full to the crest of the ridge, and pours softly over. I button my heavy ulster close, and in my rubber boots go down to the stream and follow it out to the middle of the meadow, where it meets the main ditch. There is a sharp turn here toward the swamp; and here at the bend, behind a clump of black alders, I sit quietly down and wait.