Winter rain, now tell me why, Summers fade, and roses die. The answer came; the wind and rain. Golden hills, now veiled in grey, Summer leaves have blown away Now what remains? The wind and rain. — Weather Report Suite, The Grateful Dead I’ve felt this before. The disorientation, the tumbling, not knowing which way is up. The rules that appeared to govern the world torn asunder; scattered, fluttering to the ground. The feeling okay one moment, the tears the next. The uncert

waking up this sunday morning; a sunday morning, in some ways, like every one that has come before. outside a silver disc of sun presses through steely clouds; fine-grained snow pelts the trees standing tall in the 2-degree air. and yet. for those generations of humankind walking the earth today, this sunday morning has no precedent. we go about our morning routine: breakfast, dishes; we get dressed and ready for the day. though, of course, we won’t be going anywhere. there a