Having survived the bomb cyclone, I’m peering out the windows of my house in search of spring. Or in search of something.
January went walkabout on the veldt, its hiding places unknown. We had to send adjustment officers to drag it back. Short February lasted at least three icy months, its breath evoking a heightened sense of something in the shadows, lending a gothic tinge to the seemingly endless span.
Now the sun shines, but not yet on everything. And we’ve been told to watch for an appearance by the Worm Super Moon on the twentieth. How appropriate. (No insult to worms intended. I am a founding member of the Worm Rescue Squad.)
Times lurches forward in fits and starts, with some certainties: newly minted tax forms, long may they fold. More investigation reports. More candidates. More waiting.
Leave it to a poet for a sum-up:
“But the sunshine aye shall light the sky,/As round and round we run;/And the truth shall ever come uppermost,/And justice shall be done.”
Eternal Justice, Stanza 4
Charles Mackay (1814–1889)
Hope he’s right.