We emerged, thankful, from the heavy rain when we got on I-80 heading west out of Chicago. On I-55 to St. Louis, the flat lands ahead in a grey mist looked like we were driving into oblivion or maybe the Twilight Zone when we were just coming up to Springfield, an oasis of hills and woods.

Had Abraham Lincoln stopped here and put down roots thinking, at first, it was a mirage after traipsing through corn, corn, corn, corn but then realizing it reminded him of the hills and woods of his old Kentucky home?

My motto is “We pass none; we are passed by all.” We have a hybrid and time. My goal? The best average gas mileage ever recorded over one-hundred-thousand miles. The car is at forty-thousand. We have miles to go before we sleep. Other drivers do not share my goal nor do they appreciate it, but I try to stay in the right lane.

Because I am going so slow, I see a dead animal in the left lane. Facetiously, I ask my wife if she would like me to stop and move the mutilated body to the grassy shoulder where it can deteriorate with dignity or until the road kill cleaner-uppers come by. I tell her I think old, honest Abe would have stopped.

In the motel, I read a poem about a woman who did just that in the town of Joshua Tree. She moved a still warm but dead, small animal off a road and placed it in the shade under one of the few trees available in that desert area. However, apparently there was no traffic to get in the way and she did it thinking doing something for an unfortunate, possibly still alive animal would help with her grief.

Lincoln experienced quite a bit of grief. If the road had been a two-track and his wagon was the only one on the road, I bet he would have stopped and moved the animal to the side of the road in the shade under a tree. I don’t know if it would have helped with any of his substantial grief, but I think he was just the kind of guy who would have done something nice like that.

One of the differences between Joshua Tree, California and Springfield, Illinois is the availability of trees. I don’t think there are even a lot of Joshua trees in Joshua Tree. Lincoln would have had an abundance of deciduous trees and not a few pines to choose from.

Another difference is that the poet wouldn’t have had to drive past much corn, if any.

First thing, if he gets up
first, is to take the dog out,
fix a pot of gourmet coffee
from freshly ground free-trade
beans roasted at a local store,
clean up the previous evening’s
dishes, go online, sip coffee,
read two meditations and three
poems. He will trash all the
advertisements and check for
personal notes from friends,
making a note to respond. He
might get an idea for a poem
and if so, he will click on
a word document, type (like
what he is in the process of
doing right now), select all,
copy and paste to his blog; if
not, he will check the news,
which he has told himself
he is going to do less often
because just reading the head-
lines does nothing good for
his morning mood and works
against the good news of the
meditations. Mostly, he just
says, “Yadda, yadda, yadda.”
He knows that the great theo-
logian Karl Barth said that a
person should read the Bible
in one hand and the newspaper
in the other, which he thinks
means view the world through
the lens of God’s love, make
appropriate application and
take appropriate action, but
the news has become such super-
ficial entertainment and just
another moneymaking machine
for corporate America at the
expense of the more and more
dummied down, exploited, and
polarized public except, of
course, for what he gets on-
line of the New York Times for
free and then he flosses, brushes
his teeth, takes his meds and
supplements, gargles so his
breath will be fresh to kiss
his wife, gets another cup of
coffee and pets the Chocolate
Lab, who sleeps at his feet
and upon whom he and his wife
have recently spent two thou-
sand dollars trying to figure
out what to do about the poor
boy’s elbow dysplasia and sub-
sequent massive arthritis. They
have settled on a lubricating
shot in the elbow every few
months and three heavy-duty
narcotic pills daily, which
would kill a human in no
time but supposedly are fine
for the dog because dogs meta-
bolize opiates differently
than humans.

All the Donald’s supporters,
where do they all come from?
All the Donald’s supporters,
where do they all come from?
They come from the neighborhood
restaurant around the corner,
two seats down the bar;
they come from down the street,
and up the avenue not too far .
They are scared to death;
they don’t know how to think,
so they just gasp for breath.
They are mad at Islamists
but any old Jew will do.
When did we quit thinking?
Did we ever start?
How many dead Muslims
how many dead Jews
will satisfy their heartless
hearts?
It’s the heartless mask —
“As many as it takes
to complete the diabolical
task,”
the Devil says with drool
streaming down his gaunt
face.

The scholars came upon it
as if discovering gold or
the fountain or youth.

Alchemists in their own
fields of philosophy and
theology working over and

over with earth, wind, fire
and water of doctrine as if
there was no more to know

or see or understand, and
then these doctors of
Christian academia caught

those words of St. Francis
and Pope Francis, both of
whom got it from the

un-didacted words of Jesus
before he was christened
the Christ; they came upon

the treasure trove of service —
the Sermon on the Mount.
Good catechists all, what did

they hear all those years of
their youth? What has been
preached over the years

from the high pulpits under
the tall steeples on the four
corners of the Yankee Bible

Belt? As the grandfather
told his inquiring grandson,
as they marched past a

whites only church in the
south, “Jesus hasn’t been
seen in there for years, son.”

So, too, the finest doctrine
has been preached, a question
and answer, of course the

answer, for each Sunday in
the year — in season and out,
but where, oh, where is Jesus?

He finished reading a novel
about Auschwitz. It gripped
him — the vivid descript-
ions of what had happened

to millions while he was a
baby secure, warm, loved. It
was only seventy years that
the gas chambers closed.

He was mesmerized by the
insight to human nature by
the novelist and horrified
at the same time by the sub-

ject matter. Only seventy
years ago. He picked up a
suspense novel by one of his
favorite authors. As she de-

tailed the familiar Arizona
landscape, she described the
bludgeon, rape, dismemberment
murder one and then another.

He sighed, put the book down
and went to fetch a Windmill
cookie from the kitchen cab-
inet just to comfort himself

with all the good feelings and
memories with which those cook-
ies filled him. He was feeling
really fit and good and healthy

after minor medical attention
to issues that were no longer
lingering in his body not to
mention his mind. He looked

out the window at the lake
effect snow swirling and the
inches building, obliterating
one yard from another until

the neighborhood was one
soft, white blanket, which
could freeze a person to
death. He would be glad

to get on the road to Ari-
zona in a few days. Short-
ly, he would return to the
murder and mayhem on his

couch but not before another
detour to the kitchen. He
thought about how much
time he might have left in

this world. And then he
thought about seventy years
and what had happened just
that short number of years

ago. The vivid imagery of
the novel would haunt him
on the drive west. He would
bring Windmill cookies.

One-thousand-four-hundred posts
as of yesterday evening.
Today one more flowers.

Sitting in the room at
night with the blinds

closed, he hears the
rhythmic, percussive

roar of the waves on
the big lake and the

wind chimes on the
porch orienting him

to his front row seat
at the symphony per-

formed, in that moment,
for him alone.

Darkness fell to earth.
Wind blew darkness all around.
The waves’ roar told me.

The day dawned bitter —
bone chilling cold had set in.
White flakes on red bird.

Do you ever regret there
never having been a moment
of utter integrity required
of you over some matter —

a moment when you were
confronted with a very
clear choice knowing you
stood convicted either way

and that the way of integrity
was clear as a bell? One
way, you give in and all
goes well; the other way,

all hell could break loose
but you know in your heart
of hearts that that is
the only way of truth.

Have you ever been
confronted by such a
choice or have you only
wished in your dreams

for “the best of times,
…the worst of times,
…the age of wisdom,
…the age of foolish-

ness, …the epoch of
belief, …the epoch
of incredulity, …
the season of Light, …

the season of Darkness,
…the spring of hope,
…the winter of despair,
we had everything before us,

we had nothing before us,
we were all going direct to
heaven, we were all going
direct the other way –

in short, the period was
so far like the present
period, that…” it is
this moment? Do you ever

wish for the clarity of
that observation in which
to make the decision?
You read it in high school.

It is still around. It
said so itself: the period
was so far like the present
period, that…here it is.

It was the best of times;
it was the worst of times;
it is the opportune time;
this time, right now.