While losses to our orbits of family and friends seem to shrink our world of known relations, sometimes it opens us to the creative universe of the unknown. Our town bears the recent loss of a beloved friend, a son of Hermes, who nurtured a heart-full practice of and regard for the arts, and especially for those who bore them in trouble and in joy. Although he never let arrows fly across our range, he intended to do so, and his sincerity in this regard left it simply to be a matter of good timing. Along with others, I share a notion that he’s not done with us yet; that this sudden departure allows him to work and love in a more comprehensive orbit. Godspeed and thanks for the rain, dear friend; we’ll let an arrow fly here for you.
Twilight fell into night and a full moon rose with an amber-red glow, like firelight from a wood stove. Our mountains are burning ‘neath a sky that’s forgotten how to rain. A spring-killing drought leaves a deadly thirst among the highland natives. At the Shire, our smoke-reddened eyes and nasal stings are brought by ashen winds from the Cohutta Mountains northwest of us. We all know what it means, and all the more so, when we lack for words. Midnight, and high in the sky vault, an indifferent moon glows cold ‘n white; its fullness, a cruel parody of our emptiness.
In the Archer’s Lore rainmakers would cast a skyward arrow to breech the high-hidden river, reluctant to share its life-giving wealth. The art may be lost on our modern frame of mind, but we’ll craft suitable arrows just in case, and pray for rain.