By their stillness ye shall know them

Today for my lunch break I went outside to read the latest issue of The New Yorker by the pond. The pond patio meets the water in a spray of jets, misty remnants of which are often carried by the breeze over the metal benches that sit abreast and perpendicularly to them, my habitual vigil beside the pond on such a beautiful spring day as today. One usually sees the evidence of these ephemeral misty gusts in the wet brick which girds the pond at this place. Today I was feeling particularly addled from yet another valiant, if unwilling, struggle against sleep last night; so I plunked the can of Coke to which I had cause for recourse on the small metal patio table in front of the bench, nearly empty as it was. While reading and drinking in the occasional delicious spray I happened to notice the wind desiring to knock the mostly empty can over onto the ground; and but a hairsbreadth from reflexively leaning forward to steady it, the thought, like a silent stranger, stole into my head: "I feel compelled to steady this tottering thing because I am still afraid of death."

1 April 2003