Stretching, nothing in mind, here I am: ensconced in mediocrity for sixty years -- not a bad thing, don’t judge me, I try not to -- witness to a morning more beautiful than anything I can imagine, in words.
To be here now, in a world made weightier by the accumulation of human waste is to dance between diamonds and dreck like a jazz artist on his last legs, in a former rubber factory on the east bank of the Vistula. Blowing thoughtless scales on his sax while the Poles go crazy, thinking Warsaw is only a plane ride from Chicago.
Lord there’s only one way out.
Right now I give thanks for the chipmunk sunning itself on the rocks next to the woodshed, the robin pulling fat worms out of the front lawn, the geese tentatively walking across Lakeside Drive on their way to the water, and the lady driving a Hyundai Santa Fe waiting for the geese to make up their mind before she can go on. Infinitely more beautiful than anything I can imagine, in words.
Maybe she’ll be late for Mass.