I have been having connectivity problems, mostly in my brain. Today I re-learned three things:
First, that an iPhone won’t charge unless both ends of the cable are plugged in properly;
Second, that e-mail messages won’t get to their recipients unless one hits the “Send” button; and, in a similar vein,
Third, that WordPress posts won’t publish themselves. One must actually click on the “Publish” button. Apparently I have to do everything around here. But I have now published the missing posts so the story is a little more cohesive.
And a note on today’s ink, Coloverse Shrodinger. Note that yesterday’s ink was Cat. The two inks are sold as a set. Pretty clever. Oh: and there was no radioactive material in the box.
I had hoped to finish this story in May and move on to a new one for June’s “30 Inks in 30 Days,” but that didn’t happen, so here’s the next step in the tale:
I went for a walk last evening (alone, in the almost-dark), out in the park by my house. To the west, there was this:
But to the east, the east in the evening, there was this glorious sight:
It was more coral than my camera would catch. My iPhone was a little better at picking up the tint, but not so good with the details. The moon sifted itself between the scattered clouds,
and silhouetted the branches of trees:
And as I sat by my open window, choosing photos, the horned owl came by to hoo-hoo plaintively in the tree. Shortly thereafter, in response to a siren in the distance, a lone coyote howled in a plangent fashion, and I thought of Richard Wilbur’s poem, “Beasts,” with which I shall leave you:
BEASTS
Beasts in their major freedom Slumber in peace tonight. The gull on his ledge Dreams in the guts of himself the moon-plucked waves below, And the sunfish leans on a stone, slept By the lyric water,
In which the spotless feet Of deer make dulcet splashes, and to which The ripped mouse, safe in the owl’s talon, cries Concordance. Here there is no such harm And no such darkness
As the selfsame moon observes Where, warped in window-glass, it sponsors now The werewolf’s painful change. Turning his head away On the sweaty bolster, he tries to remember The mood of manhood,
But lies at last, as always, Letting it happen, the fierce fur soft to his face, Hearing with sharper ears the wind’s exciting minors, The leaves’ panic, and the degradation Of the heavy streams.
Meantime, at high windows Far from thicket and pad-fall, suitors of excellence Sigh and turn from their work to construe again the painful Beauty of heaven, the lucid moon And the risen hunter,
Making such dreams for men As told will break their hearts as always, bringing Monsters into the city, crows on the public statues, Navies fed to the fish in the dark Unbridled waters.
Coloverse Cat (Glistening)
It was more coral than my camera would catch. My iPhone was a little better at picking up the tint, but not so good with the details. The moon sifted itself between the scattered clouds, 
