When we stop looking for the meaning, the days will blow in heavy from the coast and we’ll bunker down with old fashioned games like quoits and darts and houses built from cards, drink whiskey, eat cheese, read, remember. Yeats said peace comes dropping slow, dropping from the veils of the morning it comes and I think even riding clouds the evening spreads across its brow. We unearth ceramic evidence of us and read the stories hidden by the years and adding two and two reframe the days, but step aside a moment and reclaim the clatter of the rain on a tin roof saying nothing but what it says. I will cook you fish that I have caught and filleted, we’ll bake some bread against the closing cold. We’ll sleep under army surplus blankets on the boards and won’t care what it means.