varying degrees of light

The shepherd was idly playing his pipe - the musical instrument - and was approached by this angel youth character who asked him to play a song about a sheep. The shepherd was, of course, tending his sheep and none of them were in any danger of falling in a pit, running off a steep cliff, taunting any lions etc. and had no reason to deny the boy's request, so he did. And, anyway, he knew quite a bit about sheep. Before, it was reason enough to play to the winds, the grass in the fields, to his flock of sheep that they would hear it but with the boy's request, he became a bard.

I feel like I did in high school, staying up late with late-night chill in the marrow of my bones, the smell of steel pressed to my fingertips and a worn guitar strapped to my shoulder, wishing there were a larger place to play loud, to croon. Martin Sexton, Sam Beam, Tom Waits. Other vocals, other guitars. I saw a friend in the library today and as soon as I walked over and she looked up with the faintest of reactions and all I could, and had to, do was gently put my arms around her. I hadn't seen her in so long, and I could say that about a few other people I care deeply about, and there's no way to tell how her life had been progressing since, but it allows that lovely vulnerability between friends. There's such a thin line though; unanswered dependence is enough to put you down for the week, and it's startling how beautiful the response is.

And thank you for $340 plane tickets to and from Honduras.