Now if everything is a mirror for everything else, what twists and troubles of Shakespeare's art find their echo in a Massachusetts morning? I hold that connections are everywhere and binding everything, just waiting to be revealed, so there is something… whether I see it or not.
2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin'd.
3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—'tis time! 'tis time!
1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!
ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
As the earth turns again to what we have named the East, as its surface carries me toward the gilded eye of the day, one ray of the sun — before all others, the very first — reaches above the banked wall of obscurity and illuminates the World!
My cats are yowling to come in. The male, Shadow, whose fur makes him an ambulatory puff of night, has thrice mew'd, and it would behoove me to allow him in from the cold. The rabbit, who is standing in for a hedge-pig, would certainly whine if he had a voice to do so, four times at least, for his breakfast. My mountains are melting away and revealing another horizon, spotless — spotless opened hand of a day, which perhaps will not judge me a blind adventurer, doomed to destroy what I would create in the mere act of reaching for it?
'Tis time, 'tis time.