The week ended blustery, cold,
damp, gray and the next began

with snow a ways up the pen-
insula. It is Sunday, sun-day,

without sun but fire in as much
as it is Pentecost, euphemistic-

ally known as the birthday of the
church for those who still think

or care about that kind of thing.
He thinks about the weather and

about his mood and about some
things going wrong between him

and some longstanding friends,
perhaps only in his mind, but ass-

uredly there — in the mind and
weighing on his heart. And then

he thinks about Pentecost wor-
ship in the past and overzealous

preachers invoking the flock to
stand and sing Happy Birthday to

themselves to the accompaniment
of a super-smiley organist and

parishioners frantically conjuring
the imagined excitement in that

upper room millennia ago while
shaking hands, giving hugs, kiss-

ing and sharing a multitude of
germs passing the peace of Christ

while it is still flu season and
while he could use some flames

dancing on his head or a little
fire in the belly or under his

fanny or feet, he thinks he will
just sit and wait for the sun.