It’s a marvelous night for a moon dance…

The moon, two days after Ramadan, is a crescent low in the west. Setting. As a family, we practiced Ramadan for the years we lived in an Islamic nation. My parents suggesting we would better understand how the people around us lived. Like Easter or Christmas back in the States.

My parents are dead. My younger sister dead.

I watch the moon from a hot tub. The moon, the first star a planet, which one I don’t know. I watch the moon slide down toward the ridge of the Lizards.

Looking up at the Ramadan crescent, I wonder at our life today.

Sheltering in place. Missing the touch of others. The simple gesture of a hug. The physicality of our life ripped away. Simple motions. Gone. Afraid of everyone.

And the end of Ramadan. The renewed gathering after the fast. The social connections traveling from house to house. The feasts at each.

Sitting in the hot tub, I watch the stars emerge. The Big Dipper pointing to the Little Dipper and the North Star. Wondering. The eternity of the “pointing” and who else might see that in 500 years.

What is the meaning of our two or three or five years in this pandemic?

At 26:00 of the Montreux concert. . .

Sometimes We Cry

Sometimes we know, sometimes we don’t
Sometimes we give, sometimes we won’t
Sometimes we’re strong, sometimes we’re wrong
Sometimes we cry

Sometimes it’s bad when the going gets tough
When we look in the mirror and we want to give up
Sometimes we don’t even think we’ll try
Sometimes we cry

Well we’re gonna have to sit down and think it right through
If we’re only human what more can we do
The only thing to do is eat humble pie
Sometimes we cry

‘Fore they put me in a jacket, and they take me away
I’m not gonna fake it like Johnnie Ray
Sometimes we live, sometimes we die
Sometimes we cry

Sometimes we can’t see anything straight
Sometimes everybody is on the make

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