Feverish Thoughts

The neighborhood is full of bird-song and dog-song – and a multitude of raucous kid-songs. They all are singing one tune, “An Ode to Spring,” author unknown but as old as the Universe. I am feeling the beginnings of Spring Fever, myself, so I understand their singing. It’s time to drive out Black Rock Road, to Lake Marburg and listen to spring peepers, while they’re still in voice.


A few nights ago the waxing moon, its face nearly full, appeared beyond the light fog shrouding my town, a strange red-orange ring around its circumference. Ancient peoples took red in the night sky as a bad omen bringing death. I wondered, briefly – jokingly – if the color presaged the arrival of Asteroid 2012 DA14. Of course, it doesn’t. It was due to the moon’s reflected light shining through ice crystals in either the fog or the clouds beyond. Flights of fancy often overtake me in near-full moon light.


Daughter and I were talking about the approaching asteroid earlier this week. Mostly we were making gallows-humor jokes about it. (Warning: politically incorrect comment ahead.) I said that the asteroid is the true meaning of Montezuma’s Revenge. The Universe will get me for that, I know, and I will have it coming to me.


Our doubts about the accuracy of NASA’s predictions that 2012 DA14 will not cause any harm to Earth led us to ponder what we would do if we knew for certain this asteroid is The One. I asked her what she would do, but she’s still thinking about that. I said I would quit the job I have begun to hate, sell the house and ride off into the sunset, for parts known and unknown, to see as much of this planet as possible before The One smacks us upside the head.


“Really, Mom?”


Yes, I answered. Absolutely!


“Then why wait to find out? Why not do this now, as soon as you can make it happen? Aren’t you always telling me that my life is mine to make happen as I want it to be?”


I hate it when Daughter throws my own words back in my face.


“Well?”


I’m still thinking. I must admit, though, that I like the sound of her idea.


That, and the peepers-song.