“How can this be? Such calm, such peace, such solitude in this world of woe?” From David Budbill’s poem, The Sixth of January.
I was listening to the news of a woman suicide bomber in Russia killing 14 people at a market, when I looked out the door and that line popped into my head just to share with you, it seemed. But that extra “s” is for the exclamation that came right after I took the picture, which I will not print, especially on Sunday. I stepped in a warm puddle which Phoebe, the very old, very small grumpy terrier left on the inside door mat. She took one look at the wall of fresh snow rising above the porch floor and decided not to attempt to scale it without her airbag and avalanche beacon. Like I said, she’s small and old and can’t see very well. The mat is in the washer. Even a little dog knows that sometimes the only life you can save is your own, as Mary Oliver would say.
