There’s a storm blowing in from the west. Less than an hour ago it went from sunny, to partly sunny, then mostly cloudy in the space of perhaps thirty minutes. The wind kicked up, the air began to cool. Since then the overcast has thickened considerably and the temperature has dropped another ten degrees; the air now feels a bit damp. Still, no rain is predicted until midday tomorrow, so maybe this is just a precursor—both forerunner and portent of weather to come. I’ve spent the day running around…and around…and around, finishing up the business of replacing my long-lost Social Security Card. The experience has left me with a new insight as to why otherwise stable folks sometimes take up serious drinking. I’ve also come away believing there’s a real need for a compassionate Bureaucracy Recovery Program; however, if such a thing exists already, I beg them to please consider targeting me for immediate intervention. In the meantime, I’m sitting mildly benumbed in my deck-side rocker, watching a fellow who doesn’t know how to fish not catch anything from the pool below the cottage. It is doubtless a mark of the dark depths to which a day can sometimes hammer a man that I confess to find this inept angler’s total lack of success rather uplifting—an admittedly uncharitable thought, for which I must eventually seek forgiveness from the spirit of ol’ Izaak Walton. A few minutes before the weather changed and the light began to dim, I made a few photos of the blue flower you see at the head of this post. It just bloomed today, while I was running around downtown. I don’t know the identity; it came in a mix of seeds…but it is pretty, whatever the name. Sitting in my rocker, watching the last of the light slip away while the rain tries to decide whether to come tonight or tomorrow, I ponder this most noble thought—that beauty can be nameless and still be just as beautiful. Then I think of my day downtown—running from place to place, circling the blocks in search of parking, sidewalks hot enough to fry eggs, blinding glare off buildings designed by architects devoid of artistry or souls, long lines and longer waits in offices with seating by the Marquis de Sade—I recall all this jolly fun, and I have another, less noble thought…that I could easily have caught at least a dozen fish from the pool that gave the interloping angler his skunking! Sorry, Izaak!