Today at 11:46 A.M. I espied a diminutive cousin of Mr. Wordsworth's lonely wandering cloud; it hung there all all by itself in solitude above the mountain tops, a single billowy cotton-ball alone aloft in a blue, blue Arizona sky, a cloud that first was--and then was not. At 11:47 A.M. the sky was a deep, deep blue...and cloudless. That little white cloud had melted away right before my watching eyes.
All things are transitory, it seems.
Something like that.
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Your brief withdrawal from the public eye, although painful for your patient readers, hasn't caused your writer's heart to murmur even one skipped beat. Your first two paragraphs leave me hungry to taste Tuscon's sky (the third expresses doubt that I wish you would delete).
ReplyDeleteThe doubt, that is. The paragraph, as always, leads to tomorrow's chapter.
I celebrate your return.