In May, what must a mayfly think? Does it wait calmly for the tender moment of copulation, or itch to get on with it? I pondered these mysteries, more pressing than they might appear, on a river in the Cotswolds, a part of England touted for antique shops more than trout.
AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, I finally get to hotspot. Anyone who has ever suffered through the four-hundred-mile godforsaken
slog from Casper, Wyoming, to Echo, Utah, on I-80 knows it to be one of the most desolate drives in America. If you’re not
being run off the freeway by stimulant-powered semi-drivers, it’s only because snowfall or 60-mph crosswinds have forced
them to commandeer all the rest areas.
“AND FINALLY, I say to you,” Jesus announced, from the back of Simon Peter’s boat, to the crowd that had gathered on shore, “love one another as I have loved you. Thank you, Capernaum! Thank you, and good night!”