Susan Lewis

MURKY WITH A CHANCE OF

You might feel better if you changed the scale. Microbes, say, for every place and time. No doubt they’re anxious, or keep lists. Thus the master of ceremonies guards her precious innocence. By which I mean surprise is like a pill, to be swallowed. One word, you say: vitamins, stockpiling. Between trace minerals and other scant rewards I’d opt to vanish with a trace, though this race to any finish feels rather foolish. Every sour-faced dough knows to rise when punched down. Let’s seek shelter where we can, then admire what’s been done. It’s sure to impress, if we let it.

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