Fate is the hunter

Like most things I write, I stole that post title from a real writer, Ernie Gann.

Up early this evening. I'm going in to work ahead of schedule so an ailing co-worker can leave early. It's what you do.

The sun is three hours gone and the waning super moon has yet to make an appearance. The night sky is inky black and Bangled with hard pinpoints of starlight.



Just a smidge south of due east Orion has lofted above the horizon. The Hunter is sideways from my perspective but will be standing tall when I look again after midnight.

Far to the south a loose carpet of red pinpricks dot the place I know the horizon to be. They swarm for miles along the Colorado border and represent a wind energy swindle of monumental proportions. On an early December evening, with the howling gale of the last 48 hours finally abating, they're a cheery splash of color and I'm not unglad to see them. Things are never just one simple thing.

As I drive south the runway lights at KIBM flare to life. A throaty growl of turbofan motors tumbles down from above and landing lights heave into view. A G-3 floats over the fence, squeals down on the concrete, and slows markedly as the Speys roar into reverse thrust.

Nona the wonder dog is happy to see me, happy to be hanging it up for the day and heading home for supper, a bit of ball tossing, and warm slumber in her palatial dog house.

It's late in the year, and many things which seemed so permanent just weeks ago are fading toward senescence. It is the way of things. In only a few more weeks the sun will cease it's march south and reverse course. Winter will set in but a new year will have begun.