Because the wind lifts from the south, these clouds rush by, matted together like felt here, and pulling apart like cotton there, until the deep opens before your eyes; and there, racing toward that pool of sky, or rolled into it like a white china ball (muddied as it is, here and there, by tar or pitch, God’s fingerprint) the bright white moon.

A moment like this; a place like this. I say tonight with certainty that, in a few short weeks, this particular ridge and its careening satellite will no longer be available to my eyes: this moon’s been sold; as well, these skies. With equal certainty I (sadly?) say that in a few short years — they pass as quickly as these clouds, wherever they’re blown — the skies that once were mine are mine no more.

Sugar makes the serving sweet, while salt adds savor. The older my taste for living gets, the more I like these complex flavors.

I’d say, if I were lonelier: I’d like to share this view with you. But here it is; and so I have: by giving you this fuzzy photo (my hands and my thoughts shook, as the shutter slowly opened), I’ve given it to myself. Look!

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