The moon struggles for position in the windy sky, and the wild mice scurry thru the fertile fields. The clock sweeps the remains of my life into a tidy offering to the eternal mystery, and the mystery offers new life in return.
Now I ease into the Grand Acceptance that takes me on its knee and says, “There you are, little Johnny Jump-up! Won’t you dance for us?”
And I’m back in the old Irishman’s living room filled with soldier sons home from the war and their girls and their wives, my wise Irish-Indian grandmother looking on with great pride and love as they gather round and clap their hands and stomp their feet while I dance my young heart out to McNamara’s Band, a scratchy recording played on a Victor-Victrola.