Plague Journal, Gray
A gray day with a fine mist falling. I do not mind the mist. In fact I attempted opening this computer screen outside on the patio table. I did not mind the infrequent mosquito. I peered at this glowing screen, feeling the keyboard surface at my finger tips moistened by the palpable mist. The morning is gray and the green around me glows dew bright. The expanse of lawn extending to the edge of the forest, the towering old growth tree canopy are so verdant that in full sunlight the registering rods and cones of the retina are nearly overpowered with sensation.
Our fellow citizens in the West who are fighting ripping, uncontained wild fires could use this falling mist. Nature, that implacable system of cause and effect is unresponsive to our wishes. Invocations to the deity for relief, appeal for a beneficent movement of weather patterns is understandable from the viewpoint of human need. I have memory of my grandfather praying for rain, after contemplating withered crops in his fields. From a viewpoint of realism the act is a sign of desperation — of our abject subservience to, our utter dependence upon the Great Earth.
The lesson never ends.
