twenty old men and women, out on a postcard perfect day of sailing on lake george, drown after their boat flips over so quickly none of them could put on a life jacket. bombs explode almost simultaneously in two tourist spots in bali. twenty two die. american marines continue with their operations to root out insurgents who they claim have infiltrated remote towns along the syrian border. many more will die.
in the meantime, the dog of my friend-an unprovenanced dirty white mutt-sulks by the door of my apartment. it is adamant to be cozy with me at the sofa. its master went to upstate new york this weekend to visit his sister who just had her first week of chemo.
i am lounging in my uncovered sofa, the rough cotton upholstery not bothering my legs. i am in awe of this tranquil silence. the only sound, beside the whir of my laptop, is the mutt's occasional muted yelp during its sleep. is it dreaming of an afternoon in the country where the sky is white and nerveless? and its master, by the edge of the field, under the weeping willows, beckoning at it noiselessly?
this could not be right. such quiet, such tranquility in this world of woe.
