The belt of Orion was vivid, the three bright stars hanging just over the fir trees at the edge of his lawn. The ancient Greek hunter warrior faithfully in position, guardian like, over the mountain town, over the country, over the world, a major player on the canopy stage. Henri Dylan stood on the back porch of his home, looking up into the clarity of the winter sky with no less awe and wonder than he had felt decades earlier, as a boy of five . . .
Marjorie never tired of seeing those humorous little vignettes of human irony that so often pass through our daily life. Or, that we ourselves participate in. The harmless, but incongruous, the silly, the absurd, ordinary things of life that perhaps might give pause, ever so slightly, to the possibility of evolution. On her way to work, she had passed one. In the cycle only lane, a committed biker in the grip of an arctic February morning, in full biking gear—helmet, pads, spandex, neon vest—an impressive, lean machine, pumping with focus and intensity . . .
Marjorie switched off the television with a decided air of irritation. Clearly, someone in the stratosphere of the local weather channel, writing copy for the anchors, had grown bored with the plain talk of precipitation, cloud cover, and barometric pressure. They had consulted an online thesaurus with undisguised zeal. Suddenly the forecasts were heavy with adjectives, nouns, and verbs, perhaps more suited to an aspiring novelist, or screen writer. An Arctic monster was looming, crouching, stalking; temps were plunging, diving, subterranean; frigid winds would be hysterical, lashing, walloping, abusive, laden with ice picks, mummifying, searing. Marjorie had never seen . . .
Stella Bishop loved working at No.10. She had not expressed that feeling to any living person, preferring to hug and hold it tightly within herself. Speaking of it might put her happiness at risk, or at the very least, diminish it. Might cause derision or laughter. Of course, she did not want that to happen. This was the first time . . .