among the new-mown hay. And the birds come out to pick among the cuttings. It’s quiet, I hear the breeze and the trees moving here. I’ll hack out a corner for my lounger and a book table, I’ll drift and read a few chapters and try not to worry about the facts. There are no facts. There’s just determination, hope and grim belief. There’s just me and Ahab, the dream of the Pacific, birdsong and a thousand things to ponder before I cut back the holly bush.
