A fog that won’t burn away drifts and flows across my field of vision. When you see fog move against a backdrop of deep pines, you don’t see the fog itself, but streaks of clearness floating across the air in dark shreds.
You enjoy work and will love your grandchildren, and somewhere in there you die.
What is it about fecundity that so appalls? Is it that with nature’s bounty goes a crushing waste that threatens our own cheap lives?