You're a fiction prize that left me in the dust for dead

I spent most of the weekend in a protracted state of not sleeping of which the best I can say is that I managed to enjoy some books and movies in the process, but this afternoon Autolycus had a successful visit to the vet and the light was very good for windows, railyards, and skies. I took a couple of pictures on my phone; I will get used to carrying my camera again.

( The sunset is all red for you and me. )

Actually the sunset is doing its late orange ember-subsidence at the end of our street as we speak, shading up through a kind of celadon rust into dusk-blue like a map of oceanic zones. Because I am still on the mailing list for Yale alumni, I just received a congratulatory e-mail about this weekend's winning of the annual game of college football with Harvard, which frankly I find hilarious because I attended exactly one of these games when I was in grad school and it was on both sides one of the most inept exhibitions of athletics I have ever been privileged to endure for three hours of overtime and more fumbles than I stopped caring to count. I believe Harvard finally won and I cheered and so did the friend who had brought me because it had been brightly, bitterly cold for the kickoff and had since become darkly, bitterly cold and at last we could go home. It was my first game of American football and kind of my last. I regret nothing except that I can't tell if this e-mail expected me to more than ironically care.