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- Джон Стейнбек
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The
light
-
rimmed
boundary
of
the
east
was
July
,
for
June
had
gone
away
in
the
night
.
July
is
brass
where
June
is
gold
,
and
lead
where
June
is
silver
.
July
leaves
are
heavy
and
fat
and
crowding
.
Birdsong
of
July
is
a
flatulent
refrain
without
passion
,
for
the
nests
are
empty
now
and
dumpy
fledglings
teeter
clumsily
.
No
,
July
is
not
a
month
of
promise
or
of
fulfillment
.
Fruit
is
growing
but
unsweet
and
uncolored
,
corn
is
a
limp
green
bundle
with
a
young
and
yellow
tassel
.
The
squashes
still
wear
umbilical
crowns
of
dry
blossom
.
I
walked
to
Porlock
Street
,
Porlock
the
plump
and
satisfied
.
The
gathering
brass
of
dawn
showed
rosebushes
heavy
with
middle
-
aged
blooms
,
like
women
whose
corseting
no
longer
conceals
a
thickening
stomach
,
no
matter
how
pretty
their
legs
may
remain
.
Walking
slowly
,
I
found
myself
not
saying
but
feeling
goodby
—
not
farewell
.
Farewell
has
a
sweet
sound
of
reluctance
.
Good
-
by
is
short
and
final
,
a
word
with
teeth
sharp
to
bite
through
the
string
that
ties
past
to
the
future
.
I
came
to
the
Old
Harbor
.
Good
-
by
to
what
?
I
don
’
t
know
.
I
couldn
’
t
remember
.
I
think
I
wanted
to
go
to
the
Place
,
but
man
commensal
with
the
sea
would
know
that
the
tide
was
at
flood
and
the
Place
under
dark
water
.
Last
night
I
saw
the
moon
only
four
days
grown
like
a
thickened
,
curved
surgeon
’
s
needle
,
but
strong
enough
to
pull
the
tide
into
the
cave
mouth
of
the
Place
.
No
need
to
visit
Danny
’
s
shack
in
hope
.
The
light
had
come
enough
to
see
the
grasses
standing
upright
in
the
path
where
Danny
’
s
feet
had
stumbled
them
flat
.
Old
Harbor
was
flecked
with
summer
craft
,
slim
hulls
with
sails
covered
in
grommeted
coats
of
canvas
,
and
here
and
there
a
morning
man
made
ready
,
clearing
boom
and
coiling
jib
-
and
mainsheets
,
unbagging
his
Genoa
like
a
great
white
rumpled
nest
.
The
new
harbor
was
busier
.
Charter
boats
tied
close
for
boarding
passengers
,
the
frantic
summer
fishermen
who
pay
a
price
and
glut
the
decks
with
fish
and
in
the
afternoon
wonder
vaguely
what
to
do
with
them
,
sacks
and
baskets
and
mountains
of
porgies
and
blows
and
blackfish
,
sea
robins
,
and
even
slender
dog
-
fish
,
all
to
be
torn
up
greedily
,
to
die
,
and
to
be
thrown
back
for
the
waiting
gulls
.
The
gulls
swarm
and
wait
,
knowing
the
summer
fishermen
will
sicken
of
their
plenty
.
Who
wants
to
clean
and
scale
a
sack
of
fish
?
It
’
s
harder
to
give
away
fish
than
it
is
to
catch
them
.
The
bay
was
oil
-
smooth
now
and
the
brass
light
poured
over
it
.
The
cans
and
nuns
stood
unswaying
on
the
channel
edge
,
each
one
with
its
mirror
twin
upside
down
below
it
in
the
water
.
I
turned
at
the
flagpole
and
war
memorial
and
found
my
name
among
the
surviving
heroes
,
the
letters
picked
out
in
silver
—
CAPT
.
E
.
A
.
HAWLEY
—
and
below
in
gold
the
names
of
the
eighteen
New
Baytown
men
who
didn
’
t
make
it
home
.
