On this early morning, dark and damp, there is a lone goose calling out over and again. Has she lost her way in the dark? Is the lake too cold and deep? I sink into the sound of this goose and feel my heart break open, such a lonely cry! How often and how deeply we all cry out in the dark of a cold morning to hear nothing in return but the echo of our own solitary voices.
holy Saturday . . . the grave-curve clouds in the sky