I read a poem a million years ago, by Wallace Stevens of Reading, Pennsylvania, in which he wrote these lines:

Cold was chilling the wide-moving swans.
The leaves were falling like notes from a piano.

The abstract was suddenly there and gone again.

This is just a sliver of the poem; I don’t remember much of the rest. Something about a man carrying a child on his shoulders, I think. There may have been a dog in there; I seem to recall a dog. A dog would make sense. A dog always makes sense. But my point is that those three lines got wedged in the sulci of my brain; they’ve been stuck there ever since and every autumn they unwedge themselves I see leaves falling and I think like notes from a piano and I am reminded Wallace Stevens and I occupied the same continuous world.

And so does Emil Heinrich, and so do you.

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