The last thing done on these issues is the introductory note, traditionally titled "The Note," or some variation thereof.  I've been stuck.  The Midwest is under water, Tim Russert is dead and, instead of being merely lauded, which would be appropriate, he is being canonized.  USA gas prices have Americans in a funk and Western Europeans engaging, I have to think, in a bit of "Oh, really..."   We have a little election thing going on here that the press is running, and running into the ground.  The evening news is hard to watch. More than usual.

I've been having a recurring nightmare.  During my boyhood, our family home apparently rested under a common route for bird migration.  Once, sometimes twice a year, we'd see massive rivers of birds flying over.  Waiting and waiting for the end of the stream.  So, I keep having this dream of being back at the house, watching the birds fly over and then noting that something doesn't look right and looking through binoculars and seeing that they're not birds but anvils.  You know, like blacksmiths use.  Except flying through the air.

Lately I've had numbers on my mind.  I'm about midway through writing a series of 6 poems with 6 parts each.  Don't know why.  So, what about number 21?  It's the legal drinking age in the USA and it's the atomic number of scandium.  It's a gambling game and it's the name of the current century which, by the way, is feeling a bit like a gambling game itself.

My dog has had an acute onset of arthritis.  I saw/heard Mark Doty read from his book Dog Years last year at the Harvard Bookstore.  An exasperated man in the audience said, during the Q&A, that he couldn't understand why people buy a dog, have it for a handful of years, then grieve its loss, and then buy another dog.  The ever-thoughtful Mark Doty responded, "The agreement to participate in this life is a pact with grief." 

But, it's Friday as I write this.  That's pretty good right there.  I just had a really nice meal I made of southern style chicken & dumplings (canned biscuits + a couple pieces of chicken + vegetable broth) and my wife liked them, too.  I had a really tasty orange for desert.   Really good oranges serve as evidence of a benevolent God for people with even a half-way open mind.  (I know, I know, its not conclusive.  But it is at least circumstantial).  And with orange in the foreground and orange in the background, I'll just add that I hope you enjoy Issue 21.

 

Dale