On the line

A cold front is scudding towards my home from the Northeast. Outside my window I see a mass of clouds in the distance over the maple and spruce trees. It will probably rain. If it does I'll have to take the clothes in. My house is the only one in the neighborhood with a clothesline. I expect the other people here consider it an eyesore, just barely short of a prosecutable offense. These days the use of clotheslines is restricted to television commercials as a symbol of a chemically constructed "fresh scent" added to a detergent or fabric softener. I mourn the dearth of clotheslines. They are poetic and insprational. The implicit democracy and ethics of hanging out one's no longer "dirty" linen, the explicit green attitude of using the most efficient solar-powered dryer provide one level of meaning. On a sensory level we enjoy the squeak of the pulley, the creak of the line under the weight of the wet clothes becoming a low thrumming note as it tightens like the string of a bass viol. The joy of using a clothespin, and remembering that it was the Shakers who developed and perfected them. The Shakers danced prayers to the Lord shivering in His spirit like drying clothing quivering in the wind. Before I hung the clothes out today, a goldfinch perched on the line. He jittered his head and wings, obviously enjoying the sun. He stayed there a while to let me admire his beauty. Now that the bottom line sags with the weight of waterlogged shirts, jeans, socks and underwear. the top line makes a sharp, straight, white line against the green of trees and grass. But, if I look carefully, I see dragonflies, their small bodies spaced a few inches apart, resting from flight. They are spaced so evenly that they look like inch markings on a thin white ruler. The clouds are almost overhead. The maple leaves are turning upside-down. The birds are calling for rain. It's time for me to go take in the laundry.