Movement

Judy and Ciela are away. The furniture is now in Alberquerque somewhere. And I've been running around returning high-chairs, delivering goods to the Salvation Army, and riding my bike.

Josh Ritter has a line in "Wings" that says "what makes the water holy is that it's the closest thing to wings." But cycling is really the closest thing to flying. Parachutests are merely falling slower than the rest. Hang gliders are close, but they are only soaring, they never have to work to stay aloft.

Biking, that's flying. Wheels are wings, and pedaling to the summit of a hill is the only way to appreciate the soaring feeling that comes from coasting downhill. And all birds wear helmets anyway.

I'm in my office for the last time. I have to give up the laptop once and for all. I've clung to it until the bitter end, but sadly, the great machine must move on to newer hands. I'll probably never have its like again. Sniff.

Matt shows up tomorrow in the early a.m. and we start our journey to AZ. I want to try and make it to Taos the first day--a thirteen hour trip--so the second day is a bit easier. Besides, between Denver and Taos, there's not much that looks appealing for a night's stay.

I'll be away from cyberspace for a few days--probably at least until Thursday or Friday when the truck arrives in Scottsdale.

Until then,