Tree Swallows have arrived.  They dance in the sky.  The close Mockingbird has paired.  She still looks nervous.  Weather for Sunday includes snow and a low temperature several degrees below the freezing point.  And the potatoes are showing.  So much for orderliness.

    But these are the trials of an isolated being, perhaps lost in an idolatry.  That part of life that is near.  In the faraway others have built their own idols.  Sometimes there is a clash.  Then we chose sides.

   Some call it a condition, and give it the pedigree of a thing ordained.  Others call it a failure of imagination.  But who, I wonder, revels in it.

    In the random place there are infinite possibilities, and in this place life dances quite happily, always.  But I am a moment in time, I am a quality of time.  My dancing is limited.

    There will be those who think this ridiculous.  They will find it useless, and yawn for a while before wandering toward an overburdened  refrigerator.  In this way, they will tell me to pull myself together, cover the potatoes or find useful work.  

    Which is I guess that condition of choosing sides, or a failure of imagination, or the geometry of a two step mathematics.

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