The sun shined red through the smoke of wildfires last night and a deer crossed the road in front of me on my drive home several hours later. Both are signs of impending apocalypse: deer, for example, are known to be demons (they get so desperate here in winter that one almost hit me as I was walking from Nicole's house to my car). Red suns, while less foreboding than blood red moons, are similarly bound to signify something.
The whole thing makes me miss the Club. Maybe I'll see if Peter's free for lunch later this week to catch up or something.
Or maybe I'm just being silly. Maybe it doesn't make sense to feel, in every unexpected astronomical event or cervine encounter, an impending & radical change. Maybe it doesn't make sense to miss old friends over silly little things like a few forest fires.
Maybe I won't call Peter after all.
Church History poem, attempt #2 - *Joseph Sr., ca. 1812* In the spring he sows hope, but come fall he reaps only the empty wind— so all through the long Vermont winter, there’s a bottle in h...
1 month ago