This morning, predawn; a hobbled greybeard walks the dew path toward the fox hollow road; oakwood smoke in the air below the last half moon of winter; the slightest hint of stars swirling beyond the eastern tree tops, above the winding valley branch. Wrens and redbirds staccato in the maples before the crows take flight. All the players are in their proper place for the shooting star, brighter than the moon, from zenith to the valley in a second; a moment only, but in that flash, a greybeard becomes a boy once again, a child of wonder once again, wishing on a star.
He wishes for a walk upon a dew path toward the fox hollow road.
~Michael Douglas Jones
Parcel №4
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