Thanksgiving day ramble

And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars; see that ye be not troubled: for these things must needs come to pass; but the end is not yet. --Matthew 24:6

So urge the Gospels.

Christianity's allure is solace.  But the price... the price... 

War looms.  Darkness descends. 

To the west, Pacifica may indeed love us, but her hand is not gentle.  Neither wind nor water.  She scolds us with her icy breath.  She worries our coasts with her monstrous sharks.  She rages in cold fury.  She feeds us.  She feeds on us. 

To the east, Old Man Hood skirts himself in liard and whey, indifferent as a star to our flint-spark lives.  His stormy moods strike us dead.  When glimpsed through the nimbus, he is frowning.  His own war, he knows, is lost. 

Very well.  Whatever may come, I stand by these, which are forever apart from the Abyss:

Edenic city, nestled among tree-studded hills at the confluence of two mighty rivers.  Presently she is in Arctic jet stream stasis.  Winter's vanguard defrocked oak and maple, lulled Douglas-firs to early slumber.  Sleep then, my love.  Let us sleep.

Beloved wife who redeems and absolves me.  She fires the kiln of the clay of Creation.  She would not have me sing her praises so openly.  Enough, then.  Just a word and enough.

 My best to all on this Thanksgiving Day.