The ink is spent.
All morning brief showers, hissing furious chastening of a petulant lover. But bold afternoon sunshine would not be denied.
In an Ishmael mood on the way up the mountain, I mused on the scribblings, tired and bitter. Nothing shines anymore. No magic.
"Do you want to see Venus?" said he. She offered shaded lenses like those they give at the 3D cinema.
|"Do you want to see Venus?"|
"There you go," he said. "There's your once-in-a-lifetime. It won't happen again until 2117."
Preposterously, she sought to console. "Who knows? You might live another 105 years."
"There aren't many people who have seen that," he said.
"We're the lucky ones," I said. I thought about the oak tree.
|Back in a couple weeks|
Honored, as always by your interest. Back later this month, God willing.