Should not I have pity on Nineveh, that great city, wherein are more than sixscore thousand persons that cannot discern between their right hand and their left hand, and also much cattle?
And here, now, with the maple flower blushing more and more furiously, going from tawny to red?
I am thinking about my long betrayal of beauty, and wondering if I can ever reach forgiveness. I have spent a lifetime in Tarshish; I have friends and family there; the call has faded to the faint twittering of birds; and as long as I carefully avoid crossing water, I should make it to the end of my days.
Only. There is the reddening of the maple flower in the morning, and gray eyes catching the last light of evening. There's the wathuma gebind of the Spruce boughs in the wind, and the rain scrabbling against the window pane. I am not yet so old and dignified that God would jib at dragging me out of bed in my pajamas and sending me to sea.