Distant cannons

Yesterday afternoon, walking along the river, it was curious to remember that winter yet lies upon the Rose City. The sky bright and diffused, cirrus scalloped like flavored carnival ices, was hopeful backdrop to the impermanent skyline.  Impermanent?  Short-lived is perhaps a better descriptor.

Old Man Hood glowered in the dusk, his sleep disturbed by rumblings from across the great basin where his brethren still wrestle beneath Pacifica's blanket.  The rumor of those struggles is distant cannon fire.  This play of giants visits disaster on those strange, delicate creatures, no sooner arisen than were spread across the playground.

Alas, my Japanese brothers and sisters!  Our woe is not beyond, but beneath their ken.  (And a special prayer for you, Sister Satoe, wherever you may be.)

The people living by her side brace for Pacifica's lashing tongue.  No one can know how she will respond to the wrestling of the giants.  We only know that she will be furious.

Respect her fury!  Fear it!

The sad defeat in Wisconsin reveals disturbing truths about those vassals who stood with the overlords.  For them, apparently, it is more important that no peon be given a single bread crust more than themselves.  But readily do they bow to the lords and ladies, nor dare to sup until their betters are well and fed. 

Dusk deepens on the City of Roses.  Tomorrow the rains arrive.